


Every Day It's Getting...

by GordianKnot



Series: Beyond Infinity [2]
Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Compliant, Barton Family, Barton Farm, Depression, Family Fluff, Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, Guilt, Odin (Marvel)'s A+ Parenting, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Resurrection, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-10
Updated: 2020-09-07
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:47:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 63,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24103900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GordianKnot/pseuds/GordianKnot
Summary: After the events of Endgame, Clint Barton returns to his Iowa farm to disappear into obscurity with his newly-resurrected wife and children by his side. A normal life should be easy after being a SHIELD agent, an Avenger, and a vigilante. He can rest. He can grieve for his best friend.Then the remaining Avengers call him in - not for a mission, but because something impossible and miraculous has happened.A story about grief, guilt, family, and living in a world where death isn't always the end.*************************************************************************Chapter 1 can be read as a one-shot, if you're not into happy endings :)*********************************************Tags will update as new chapters are added.
Relationships: Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov, Clint Barton/Laura Barton, Hank Pym/Janet Van Dyne, James "Bucky" Barnes & Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers & Natasha Romanov
Series: Beyond Infinity [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1739104
Comments: 24
Kudos: 37





	1. Guilty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Clint is at home.

_Thursday, 11/16/2023 - Clint_

Weeks after the final battle with Thanos, Clint still can't shake the feeling that he's hallucinating. The house, Laura, the kids - _none of it_ seems real. It makes so much more sense to think he's lost his mind - that he's imagining his wife's warmth in their bed and his kids' muted voices downstairs. No matter how much he wants to just enjoy the nine minutes before the alarm goes off, the doubt clings to every moment. He reaches out to brush a strand of dark hair away from Laura’s cheek and watches in fascination as her nose crinkles in her sleep. She's so beautiful in the predawn light. 

She’s too beautiful to be real. 

He's pretty sure he knows where his true memories end and the fantasy takes over. He can’t nail down how Akihiko got the best of him, but the bastard must have done it. A hidden knife, a surprise gun, maybe a sniper - yeah, that would be poetic - and now Clint's bleeding out in a back alley in Tokyo while his dying brain tries to comfort him in his final moments. Nat never appeared out of the rain and darkness like a guardian angel to offer him hope (she’s far away, and _safe_ ). There was no getting the old team together, no talking raccoon and fat Thor, no journey through time and space to a godforsaken alien planet (no sacrifice). Any minute now, there's gonna be a white light shepherding him to the great beyond. 

Any minute now. 

But every time he opens his eyes, he's still in the house in Iowa, surrounded by his family. Six minutes to go until the alarm. A sudden squawk from one of the kids downstairs drags him out of his head. He quickly but carefully extricates himself from the bed, making sure not to wake Laura. She needs her rest. Pulling on jeans and a t-shirt, he pads silently out of the bedroom and down the stairs, avoiding the squeaks and groans of the old house without thought. 

Cooper looks up, startled, as Clint enters the kitchen. He's in the middle of cleaning up a puddle of milk beside Nathaniel's cereal bowl, but it doesn't look like anything serious happened. Nothing's irreparably damaged. Cooper and Lila are already dressed for school and Lila’s hair is in a neat french braid that has to be her older brother’s work - at ten, she hasn’t quite worked up to that level of complexity. Nate's contentedly shovelling corn flakes into his mouth, a napkin tucked into the zippered front of his dark blue footie pajamas. 

Clint loves them so much that his heart may actually explode. "Hey," he says, voice gravelly with sleep. "Everything under control?" 

"Yeah," Coop says, relaxing a bit. He glances quickly at Clint's tattooed arm and away, looking down to finish sopping up the spill and using the dry end to wipe away any remaining dampness. "Just gotta finish breakfast and brush our teeth." He lobs the milk-soaked towel into the sink without looking and casually asks, "Are you driving us today?" 

Upstairs, the alarm goes off - three beeps and a pause, three beeps and a pause, two beeps and silence. The ceiling creaks as Laura makes her way into the master bath, and a moment later the shower starts. 

"Maybe," Clint says. "Your mom may want to head into town." 

Coop nods and drops into a chair to finish his cold toast and orange juice. 

“Morning, Dad,” Lila says, absently poking at the last few bits of cereal in her bowl with her spoon. 

“Morning, baby.” He drops a kiss on her head and heads for the coffee maker. His hands do the work of getting it started almost without his input. Filter, grounds, water, button. While the coffee brews, he gets a couple of mugs down and turns to lean back against the counter. There’s comfort in routine, in little mundane things. The smell of coffee filling the kitchen, the quiet clink of Lila's spoon against her bowl, the wild, sleep-rumpled cloud of Nate's hair... It makes everything feel almost normal. Almost… And yet he can’t help feeling that there’s something surreal about watching the kids eat breakfast quietly in this once-familiar place while Laura makes just enough noise upstairs to reassure him of her presence. How many mornings like this did he take for granted before...? 

Just as the trickling of coffee into the pot stops, Cooper chugs the last of his juice and stands, picking up his plate and glass and heading toward the sink. 

“I’ll get the dishes,” Clint says, shifting so he can keep an eye on the kids while pouring coffee into both mugs. “Why don’t you and your sister finish getting ready?” 

The fourteen-year-old nods amicably, leaving everything in the sink. “Come on, Lila, you can brush your teeth first.” His sister pushes away from the table and follows with a roll of her eyes - her new favorite affectation. They meet their mother on the stairs, the muffled sounds of their greetings punctuated by two sets of quick steps and Laura’s slower, barely-awake saunter. The kids’ footsteps thump up and Laura’s creak down. 

She wanders through the living room and into the kitchen with sleepy eyes and wet hair, managing a reasonably coherent, “Good morning.” 

Wordlessly, Clint holds out a mug of black coffee. Laura’s never been a morning person, but some days are worse than others. If the shower didn’t rouse her completely, he knows better than to try to engage before the caffeine kicks in. He gets a grateful grumble in return as she accepts his offering. Trudging to the table, she eases into Cooper’s chair beside Nate and absently reaches out to smooth his hair. 

While Cooper and Lila move around upstairs, they get a few more moments of relative quiet. Clint collects Lila’s cereal bowl from the table and takes it to the sink, glancing out the window at the lawn. The frost is already gone. He washes the kids’ dishes and puts them in the drying rack before rinsing out the milk-soaked towel. Wringing it thoroughly, he folds it into a neat square before taking it back to the table just in case. 

Laura is staring into the middle distance, hands cupped around her half-empty mug. Clint grabs the pot to top her off and replenishes his own as well. He’s rewarded with a tired smile. 

“Want me to drive the kids today?” he asks. 

“Mmmm, that would be great,” she says, raising her coffee to her lips and savoring a fresh sip. “I’ll get a start on the laundry.” 

“I can do that if you want to get some more rest,” he offers. “You’re going to be stuck on the phone…” 

“It’ll help me wake up,” she says firmly. “Don’t worry, I’ll just get it separated and the first load in. You can handle the rest.” 

The rapid thuds of quick feet racing down the stairs heralds the return of the older kids to the first floor. “Time to go,” Cooper calls from the direction of the front door. More quietly, he coaxes, “Come on, Lila, shoes.” 

“I’d better get going - your kid has spoken,” Clint mutters to Laura. 

Amused, she murmurs back, “Oh, he’s my kid when he’s being bossy?” 

“When he’s being all grown up and responsible,” Clint corrects, “then yeah.” Leaning in, he kisses her lightly, close-mouthed. He should have brushed his teeth before he came downstairs, but it’ll have to wait for him to get back. Laura’s fingers brush his cheek, her gorgeous eyes full of affection that he doesn’t deserve. His chest tightens with emotion and the overpowering urge to beg her forgiveness. There are so many things he hasn’t- 

Lila calls, “Dad?” 

Clint forces a smile and pulls away from his wife, patting Nate on the shoulder on his way out of the kitchen. Cooper’s already set, looking expectant as he stands with one hand on the door and his backpack over his shoulder. He's wearing the olive drab hoodie that's still too big on him. Lila’s sitting on the stairs, finishing up her shoe laces. As Clint stoops to pull on his boots, Cooper asks, “Are you going to wear a jacket?” 

Since Lila’s already wearing one, Clint glances up at the boy and replies, “Yeah. It’s November.” 

Cooper seems strangely relieved, though he tries to cover the reaction. He nods hastily and turns away, opening the door. 

“Bye Mom,” Lila shouts as she snatches up her purple backpack and ducks around her brother to get outside first. “Bye Nate!” Nate’s response is audible but unintelligible. 

Clint grabs a heavy flannel and shrugs it on, calling, “Be back soon,” before stepping out into the brisk morning air. Lila is already halfway to the car, calling shotgun loudly. It’s a bit of a wasted effort, since Cooper hasn’t challenged her over it in weeks. Clint smiles to himself as he glances up at the mostly cloudy sky, the pale blue beyond only visible in scattered patches. The weather report said there’d be storms in the evening, but there should be some sun between now and then. 

The kids are in the car and buckled up before Clint is halfway across the yard. Cooper has settled into the back seat to doze with his head back and eyes closed, even though it’s only a twenty minute drive. The moment Clint gets in, Lila starts talking and keeps up a steady stream of chatter about her new classmates, how easy her homework is, the trees losing their leaves - whatever comes into her head. He tries to follow along as he puts the car in gear and begins to drive, but she jumps between topics so rapidly that he eventually just makes encouraging noises now and then while letting her voice wash over him. With Lila chattering and Cooper visible in the rearview, he can keep his eyes on the road more. There are a lot of crisp, new ‘For Sale’ signs posted by the weedy driveways they pass. A lot of weathered, older ones, too. 

Just as they cross the short bridge that marks the transition from corn fields to housing developments, Lila suddenly gets quiet. Clint glances at her quickly and finds her staring pensively out the window. 

“Hey,” he coaxes. “What’s wrong?” Did he miss something? She'd been talking about a book she was reading, saying she wasn’t sure about the main character - Meg, he caught that - and then trailed off while describing the rest of the family. Damn, he can’t remember the title. 

Lila looks startled for a moment, then looks him right in the eye and lies. “Nothing,” she says. Glancing away quickly, she watches the houses go by and says a little awkwardly, “So anyway, I like it so far, even if they do talk funny. And Mom would never let Nate make a sandwich, even if he’s just as weird as Charles Wallace.” 

“No, I don’t think your brother is ready to be trusted with making his own food yet,” he agrees. “But he’s not weird, Lila, just a little different sometimes.” 

She rolls her eyes as Cooper scoffs audibly in the back seat. Clint can’t help but smile, and Lila grins back before turning to look out the window again. She’s quiet the rest of the way, but seems okay. She perks right up when the elementary school comes into view. 

Getting close to the entrance is a lot easier now that the in-town kids have got some bus service, but there are still a lot of parents who choose to drop their kids off. It’s slow going - a solid ten minutes of jockeying for position in a claustrophobic mini traffic jam. He gets as near as he can, parking farther from the door than he’d like but against the curb. “Do you have your phone?” 

“Yes, Dad,” Lila says, patting the pocket of her jacket. For a moment, he can see the corner of the slim, discrete burner outlined against the yellow fabric. 

“Good girl,” he praises. “Remember to keep that on you.” 

“Yes, Dad,” she repeats, rolling her eyes and grinning at him. Pushing up on the center console between the seats, she leans over and kisses his cheek. “Bye Dad, bye Coop!” And then she’s out the door in a rush of cold air, slamming it behind her. She’s immediately called over by a group of girls. They bunch up, all talking at once as they dawdle toward the door. It’s good that she’s already made new friends. Clint watches, waiting for them to get inside. 

“Dad, we gotta go,” Cooper says quietly from the back seat. “I’m gonna be late.” 

Clint doesn’t like driving away while Lila is still outside and exposed, but Coop’s right. It’s fine - he can double back after he’s dropped Cooper off. The high school is just down the road; at the rate they’re going, the girls might still be outside when he returns. “Hey Coop?” 

“Yeah?” 

He glances at his son in the rearview and asks, “What was the name of that book Lila mentioned?” 

“Dunno,” Cooper replies with a shrug. “I wasn’t paying attention.” His head is rolled to the side, his gaze on the passing buildings, but there's a pensive look on his young face. 

If he’s lying, Clint can’t tell. Is Cooper covering for her or… The moment he realizes what he’s thinking, his gut twists. Is he getting paranoid over his kids keeping secrets? That’s what kids _do_. 

Okay, so he’s still going to find out what Lila’s reading and check in with Laura, but that’s just good parenting, right? 

They make it to the high school with a few minutes to spare, helped by the fact that there’s a wider drive and fewer cars are dropping off students. There are still plenty of kids loitering outside, chatting with their friends. A lack of movement from the back has Clint twisting around in his seat. Cooper has his hand on the door latch, but he seems to be hesitating as he studies the crowd. 

“Got your phone?” 

Cooper’s brown eyes snap to his. “Yeah.” 

It’s tempting to ask if he wants to go back home. Maybe Coop’s not feeling well. Maybe it would be better to keep him in sight. Clint narrows his eyes as he studies the teenager. He looks okay, and he’s usually pretty good about speaking up if he’s sick. It’s probably just nerves or some teenage thing, but… “You okay, Cooper?” 

“Fine,” the boy says. His features shift, some kind of struggle going on under the surface. “It’s just… you know, new school. It’s different.” 

“Cheer up, pal,” Clint says sympathetically. “Tomorrow’s the weekend.” 

Cooper shoots him an insincere smile and climbs out. No one seems to notice him as he jogs up the steps and disappears through the doors. Clint breathes out. God, he’s out of practice with parenting. He has to remind himself that Laura says Cooper will be alright. He just needs- 

A honk behind him brings Clint back into the moment. Putting the car into gear, he checks his sightlines before pulling away from the curb. A quick spin by the elementary school and then he can head home. 

*** 

He's considered the possibility that he's already dead and this is his heaven. Having Laura and the kids back, exactly the same as when they died would just about qualify as paradise except for the constant awareness of the price Nat paid for his happiness. The thing is, Clint just can't believe that he's ever going to make it to heaven. So it's got to be a dream or a hallucination or… or something. 

Yeah, it has to be. 

There's an endless list of things to do around the house, chores to keep him busy and distracted. Clint handles the finances and does the laundry so Laura can focus on getting herself and the kids declared legally alive. Then there’s the doors that stick, pipes that bang, a water heater that could use replacing… Six years of being mostly abandoned has let a lot of projects build up. Today he putters, checking off some of the quicker, easier tasks. While he works, he keeps an eye on Nate, who’s playing on the floor by the couch with his legos, fishing all the yellow bricks out to make something that looks like a cross between a tree and an umbrella. 

Laura’s pacing on the porch, talking to some bureaucrat about the kids. Clint’s hyper-aware of her shadow passing by the curtained window, of her steps and voice moving back and forth. As long as he knows where she is and can see Nate, he’s fine. “Yes, that’s correct. Yes. Yes, three. No, our youngest isn’t in school, he’s-” She breathes out slowly, looking up at the overcast sky. “Yes, I’ll hold.” 

Somehow the schools have been able to get their shit together, but every other government office is still scrambling. It doesn't seem like there's an end to the hodgepodge mess of paperwork and interminable phone calls associated with the event people are calling the Blip. 

The fucking _Blip_. 

Clint blows out a measured breath and tries to keep his attention on fixing the office door so they don’t have to keep it propped open all the time. It’s getting colder, and it would be nice for Laura to be able to have a quiet place to get things done instead of going outside. He’s just set his tools aside and is testing the balance when he hears gravel crunching under car wheels outside. 

“Nathaniel, stay right there,” Clint orders as his son looks up curiously. The boy gives him a questioning look, but stays parked on his overall-clad butt. His siblings would already have been peeking out the window. Wiping his hands off on his jeans, Clint steps outside to join his wife on the porch. 

Laura glances at him before returning her gaze to the new arrival. Andy Hart pushes the door of his truck closed and walks toward the porch, tipping his head in greeting as Laura descends the steps to meet him at the bottom. “Mister and Missus Barton,” he says, pushing the ball cap back on his shaggy, blond hair. “Sorry I didn’t call first - I was up the road at the Millers’ and thought I’d stop by.” 

“It’s no trouble, Andy,” Laura replies pleasantly. “What can we do for you?” 

Clint can guess - back when he hired Andy to look after the farm, he only put enough money in the account to cover the duration of his house arrest. They hadn’t planned to stay in Missouri any longer than that. Clint hadn’t bothered to cancel the service after the Decimation, never intending to return to either house. Andy may have had his own reasons for continuing to do the work when the money stopped, but it’s not unreasonable for him to come by with a bill now that everyone’s back. Clint doesn’t mind - thanks to Andy Hart, his family had a home in reasonably good shape to return to. At least all the pipes and windows were intact and there were no bugs, unlike the place in Missouri. 

“I’ll get my checkbook,” Clint says readily, taking half a step back toward the house. “We can settle up-” He trails off at the look of confusion on the other man’s face. 

“We’re all square, Mister Barton,” Andy says slowly. He reaches into the breast pocket of his flannel shirt and withdraws a slip of paper. “Well, almost - I got the November payment from your sister. Guess she had it automated and forgot to cancel?” Holding the paper out toward Laura, he says, “Wrote out a refund check, but the only address I have for Miss Matthers is yours. I don’t suppose you can get this to her?” 

Matthers is Laura’s maiden name, but she doesn’t have a sister. The bottom drops out of Clint's stomach. It feels like his brain is lagging, but his gut already understands. 

Laura takes the check. She stares at it for a long moment, surprised, then blankly says, “Thank you. We’ll take care of it.” 

Andy nods, looking uneasy as he seems to realize that something isn’t right. He glances up at Clint and his eyes widen a little, his expression turning sympathetic. “Alright. Sorry again to trouble you folks. If you need anything done around the place, you’ve got my number,” he says kindly. With another respectful nod to each of them, he heads back to his truck. 

Clint watches in silence as the man gets back into the vehicle and pulls onto the long drive. When he’s sure that their visitor won’t be turning back, he looks to his wife. Laura holds the check in both hands, her thumb rubbing back and forth over one corner as she stares at it. He walks down the steps to stand beside her. “Laura?” 

Her head snaps up as if she’d forgotten he was there. His stomach twists as he sees tears pooling in her brown eyes. Wordlessly, she holds the check out to Clint. 

He takes it and studies the slip - a personal check from Andy to ‘Naomi Matthers’. The grief hits him again, but this time he’s pretty sure he manages to keep it off his face. Even though he doesn’t recognize the alias, it’s pretty easy to figure out who would use Laura’s maiden name while paying for their home to be kept up for years. "Nat," he says, unnecessarily. 

“Daddy?” 

They both turn to see Nathaniel on the porch, looking puzzled. With only a tiny, hitching breath, Laura gets herself under control and briskly climbs the steps to pick him up. He's slightly startled but compliant, leaning into his mother’s shoulder and curling an arm around her neck. She kisses their little boy on the temple and holds him close, hopefully gaining some comfort from having Nate safe and alive in her arms. 

Nat’s namesake. Some days, it seems like everything is a reminder. 

Clint folds the check carefully and puts it in the back pocket of his jeans. "I'll look into it." 

Laura nods, eyes still glossy. She runs her hand through Nate's hair as the four-year-old begins to look anxious. He's an even-tempered kid and too young to fully understand everything that's happened, but he’s empathetic enough to start crying because someone else is sad. After the emotional rollercoaster of the last few weeks, it doesn't take much to set him off. 

"I've got to get some things from the workshop," Clint says. It's an act of will to keep his voice steady and smile emptily. He’s never been the actor that- 

Turning before he can break, he walks away. 

*** 

It's better when everyone's home and in sight. Laura’s making pot roast, moving purposefully around the kitchen and carefully avoiding stepping on her youngest child. For his own arcane reasons, Nate is lying on his back in the middle of the wooden floor with his old teddy bear clutched to his chest and his eyes fixed on the ceiling. He’s humming some old song off-key while Lila and Cooper finish their homework at the kitchen table. Clint’s not sure what they did to math since he was a kid, but he takes comfort in the fact that Lila understands it better than he does. 

It's nice. Quiet. Mundane. It reminds him of before. 

The rain starts just as they're starting dinner. It’s only supposed to be an inch or so and should stop before midnight. Clint is more worried about the accompanying high winds. Hopefully that shutter on the second floor holds up; he’d meant to look at it earlier, but the day got away from him. 

A chime sounds, and it takes Clint a moment to realize that the sound came from the phone in his pocket. 

“One, one ring,” Nate intones in a stilted, faux-Transylvanian accent. It might have been a mistake to let him watch Sesame Street. 

Laura frowns, one hand below the table, and says, "That wasn’t mine. Clint?” 

“Mine,” he confirms, puzzled. He can’t remember the last time he got a text message from someone other than Laura. She’s at the table and so are the kids. There’s no way any of the Avengers would be reaching out. He can’t think who else would even have the number. 

The phone chimes again. 

Cooper and Lila share a wide-eyed look. 

“Two,” Nathaniel says, waving his fork and nearly dislodging a crookedly impaled carrot. A few drops of gravy escape, one of them flying past the edge of his plate to spatter on the table. 

“Eat your dinner, Nate, don’t play with it,” Laura chides as she reaches over with a damp cloth to clean up the mess. One day they’ll be able to pass a whole meal without needing it. 

"Aren't you going to check?" Cooper asks. 

"After dinner," Clint replies. He's calm and in control, but the next bite of pot roast tastes like ashes. 

“Maybe they don’t know we’re eating,” Lila suggests, anxiously smashing a piece of potato into mush. “You could answer and tell them so they know, and also see if it’s important.” 

“Sweetie, you know the rule about electronic devices at the table,” Laura reminds her. 

“That’s right,” Clint says. “It’s nothing that can’t wait.” 

“Are you sure?” Cooper looks uneasy. “Maybe it’s the other Avengers.” 

Clint fights a grimace, keeping his expression neutral for the kids’ sakes. There may not be many people who have his number, but he can be pretty sure that none of his old teammates will be contacting him. It’s probably a weather alert or something from the phone company. “It’s not. Don’t worry about it, Coop.” 

“I’m finished,” Nate says, putting his fork down delicately on his gravy-coated plate. “That-was-good-Mommy-thank-you.” He looks to Cooper and gets an approving nod from his big brother. 

Amused, Laura smiles at both boys and says, “You’re very welcome, Nathaniel.” 

“I liked it too, Mom,” Lila says quickly. “Pot roast is my _favorite_.” 

Clint’s phone chimes. 

“Three, three rings,” Nate announces, flinging his thankfully empty hands wide. A particularly strong wind buffets the house and makes the lights flicker. Upstairs, that damn shutter bangs loudly off the siding and Lila jumps, then shoots a suspicious look at her little brother as he monotonously laughs, “Ah ah ah.” 

“Dad,” Cooper says hesitantly. His napkin is fisted in his hand and he looks anxious. “Dad, what if-” 

“It’s fine, son,” Clint interrupts, gentle but forceful. “Finish your carrots.” 

Lila looks from her older brother to her father and she begins, “But-” 

“Lila,” Laura says softly. “Cooper. Daddy will check his messages after dinner. Let’s just finish eating, okay?” They fidget, clearly considering a revolt, and she adds, “I made pie.” 

Grudgingly, they tuck back into their food. Nothing stops Clint’s kids from finishing their vegetables when pie is on the line. Over their heads, Laura shoots Clint a look. She’s worried, too, though she’ll hide it for the sake of the children. Whatever the messages say, he’ll have to share it with her later. 

The phone is silent for the rest of the meal. By the time Laura pulls out the pie, Nathaniel has Lila smiling again with his antics and Coop seems okay. 

*** 

The wind is howling, dulling the sounds of the new TV even though it’s barely twenty feet away. Clint can’t hear anything from the kids, and he can’t see them from his position at the sink. Are Lila and Cooper really in there watching, or did he put on a kid’s movie to entertain ghosts? He wants to step away from the counter and walk around the bar to see them on the couch, but he’s afraid to look. He focuses on the dishes instead, on the heat of the water, the smell of the soap. It seems real, but... 

The last dish is clean and set in the drying rack. He rinses the sink, chasing the last of the bubbles down the drain, and dries his hands on a towel. Then he wipes down the counters and table again for good measure before pulling out his cell. He’s glad he waited. All three messages are from Rogers. 

> **Cap:** _Clint, I hope you and your family are doing well._
> 
> **Cap:** _I’m returning the stones tomorrow._
> 
> **Cap:** _If it can’t be undone, I’ll bring her home to rest._

_Home to rest_. Clint looks out the window over the sink, barely able to see the shape of the old oak tree as the branches shift ominously against the darkness. He stands there for a while, frozen, staring, and the phone goes to sleep in his hand. He should respond, but what the hell would he say? Good luck? 

Out of sight, Lila giggles as the three redheaded children in the movie cut off half of a man’s mustache. The sweet sound pierces straight through his heart. He stares at the phone for another minute, then slides it back into his pocket. Maybe he’ll think of something by morning. 

*** 

As usual, he can't sleep. He tries, but he jerks awake after an hour or two, his heart pounding. Every time, despite Laura’s miraculous presence beside him, he’s sure that it's happened again. Every night, as many times as necessary, he eases out of bed and goes silently from room to room, checking to make sure the kids are alive. It's only when he sees them all tucked safely in their beds that Clint can lay down next to his wife and close his eyes again for a little while. He’s getting better; he’s down to three checks per night and he’s not waking Laura anymore. She knows he’s still doing it - they’ve talked - but she hasn’t pushed. Not yet. 

Clint hasn’t told her that he sometimes slips out of the house just before dawn and walks through the brittle, frosted grass to check the memorial they put up for Nat. Some part of him still hopes to find it missing, but the small stone marker is always there, tucked into the shadow of the big oak tree. 

They all agreed that it had to be small enough to move with them if necessary. Clint didn't want it to be white, because he couldn't stand to see it get discolored. Lila cried at the idea of a black stone. Cooper was the one who found the deep red remnant in a corner of the show room, and Laura suggested that it stay simple and unadorned. No name, no dates, no symbols - everyone who matters knows who it's for. 

Crouching, Clint runs his fingers lightly over the smooth, curved, ice-cold surface. His touch leaves dark, wet trails in the frost. It's solid. Real. The one dark cloud in his perfect blue sky. The one thing that isn't too good to be true. Some nights, in a horrible way, Nat still gives him hope that all the rest is real, because he wants to believe that he would never dream up a perfect world and imagine her dead. Tonight, he isn't so sure. 

The kids are adjusting. Laura is trying to hold it all together. Clint’s just waiting for the dream to become a nightmare. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case it's not obvious, this first chapter takes place the day before Steve leaves to return the stones. At this point, Clint has no idea what's about to happen in New York. He's just doing his best to get by day-to-day in the new post-'Blip' world. 
> 
> Unlike the previous story in this series, this one will be told from multiple perspectives. The next couple of chapters will cover the events of "who linger..." from the viewpoint of other characters, like Bruce, Sam, Bucky, and of course Clint. Some scenes will be repeated from the first installment, but always through the eyes of someone new.
> 
> Unfortunately, chapters won't be coming out as regularly as I'd like. I have quite a lot written, but getting it RIGHT is taking longer than I thought it would. I've just been sitting on this chapter for weeks and really wanted to get it posted.


	2. Liminal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which two Avengers return to 2023 and everyone else has to deal with the fallout.

_Friday, 11/17/2023 - Bruce_

Loss is a strange thing. It seems like Bruce has been losing all his life, yet somehow there’s always more that can be ripped away from him. At some point, he should lose the capacity to grieve, shouldn’t he? 

He misses Nat. For five long years, he barely bothered to keep in touch; yet he misses her like his arm. He misses Tony, even though they talked a grand total of eight times (he sat up late one night and counted) between the Decimation and the time heist. Sometimes, he could swear he hears the other man’s voice. 

They say grief is healthy, but most days it feels like Bruce's soul is full of holes, some of them deeper and rawer than others. 

Sending Steve to return the stones was supposed to be a simple practicality - he was the most qualified of the remaining time-travelers, familiar with their actions in two different time periods, and he was outwardly confident that he could get the job done on his own. Also, no one else wanted to rewalk that path. Bruce is only now starting to understand that Steve’s assurance had nothing to do with the mission. 

Down by the lake, the old man on the bench moves a broad, flat bag of some kind closer to Wilson. Sam hesitates briefly, then reaches down and draws out a shield. Bruce squints through his glasses, but can't quite make out details with the sun reflecting off the water. He almost doesn’t need to - the shape of it and the reverence with which Sam’s silhouette handles the disc make it clear that this is Captain America’s shield. A torch is being passed. 

Regret and a new pit of loss sink into Bruce’s chest. He feels so stupid - he should have known better than to let Steve, of all people, travel into the past. What did he really have to come back for? 

A harsh cough behind Bruce makes him whirl around, startled. _Who_?! 

For a moment, all he sees is a shade of red that makes his heart stutter. Numb with shock, he blurts out, “Nat?” It can’t be, but it _is_ \- Natasha’s right there on the quantum platform, impossibly alive, shivering and huddled in on herself. Her long, loose hair is stringy and damp, her eyes huge in her frighteningly pale face. She looks fragile and somehow smaller than the last time he saw her. As she stares at him blankly, not even seeming to recognize him, he takes an unintentional step closer. Fighting to keep his voice steady, he desperately asks, “Nat, is that you?” 

Her lips part and her brow creases with concentration as she just stares at him for a long moment. Then she sways dizzily, and when she steadies herself, Natasha finally seems to focus on him properly. “Bruce,” she says, her heartbreakingly familiar voice breathless, rough, and cracking. Her gaze drops to the platform under her feet and drifts back up slowly. She blinks uncertainly at him. 

His body moves on its own, drawn toward her, but he stops short, his hand raised but unable to reach out. His heart is racing. It was impossible to bring Natasha back to life, even with the power of all six Infinity Stones. He tried, and it couldn't be done. Did Cap find a way when he visited Vormir? Maybe… maybe a different sort of sacrifice? The old man on the bench - if that's really Steve, was the price to get her back his youth? Why didn't they come back together? 

“What happened to your arm?” Natasha asks, rasping painfully. Her voice… there’s something wrong with her voice. She sounds sick, but also… 

Bruce blinks, and it's like he's seeing her through a new set of glasses. Nat _is_ smaller than the last time he saw her only a few weeks ago - shorter, more slender, definitely less curvy. Her voice is higher. The lines of her face are softer. “Look at you,” Bruce says incredulously. She looks so _young_. What the hell happened to her? What kind of trade did Rogers make? 

Overwhelmed, he twists to look over his shoulder toward the lake and shouts, “I need some help over here!” 

*** 

_Sam_

A few weeks ago, Sam was a fugitive traveling the world secretly and fighting the good fight. For two years, it was just him, Captain America, and the Black Widow relying on each other to get the job done. They ate together, bunked together, patched up each other’s wounds. Yeah, they had other allies - they saw Wanda regularly and T'Challa helped them out with contacts and supplies - but in the field it was just the three of them. 

Then Thanos came, and five years passed for Sam's best friends - for his _family_ \- while he was dust in a Wakandan field. 

Nat’s death while he was gone was a shock. Not just the fact of it, but the way she died. _Why_ she died. He's still grieving, and will be for a long time. And now, standing on the shore of a lake he used to fly over back when he was an Avenger, with the ruins of the old base behind him and a too-familiar stranger of an old man in front of him, he’s basically lost Cap as well. 

Part of him is angry, but mostly at himself. Whatever happened in the five years between the Battle of Wakanda and the final fight with Thanos, it killed something in Steve. He'd seen the emptiness behind those blue eyes and recognized that his friend was struggling. He just hadn't wanted to admit it to himself. He doesn’t want to believe that this is how it ends. If he'd stopped Steve, or fought harder to join him on the mission... 

No. How many times has he told a fellow vet that there's no point in might-have-beens? At least Steve is still alive, unlike Riley or Nat. Getting himself under control, Sam hesitantly asks, “Cap?” 

“Hi Sam,” the old man on the stone bench says, turning to smile at him. The thing is, it’s a real smile - a thousand times more honest than any he’s ever seen on Steve’s face. It’s not wry or melancholy or resigned or wistful… he’s just happy to see an old friend. 

Somehow, the peace in his friend’s eyes settles him and Sam finds himself smiling back. Feeling like he already knows the answer, he asks, “So did something go wrong or did something go right?” 

“Well,” Steve says, his voice thready with age, “After I… put the stones back, I thought maybe I’d... try some of that life Tony was telling me to get.” 

“How’d that work out for you?” 

The man’s gaze seems to drift away into the past and he smiles with quiet joy as he replies, “It was beautiful.” 

“I’m happy for you,” Sam says. “Truly.” No matter how much he might miss Steve Rogers as a comrade, he can’t begrudge him his happy ending. 

“Thank you,” Steve says quietly. 

Looking out over the lake, Sam wryly admits, “Only thing bumming me out is the fact I have to live in a world without Captain America.” 

“Oh.” Reaching to the side, the man lifts a broad, round, leather case and moves it to lean against the front of the bench. “That reminds me.” Pushing the top flap away, Steve reveals his iconic red, white, and blue shield, whole and unmarred. It must be a replica, or brought back from the branch timeline he would have created by staying in the past. Regardless of where it came from, it’s good to see it intact again… even if Cap is getting a little on in years to be throwing it around. Then Steve looks up at him and says, “Try it on.” 

Sam feels his smile fade as he stares at his old friend. He looks down at the shield, bright and shining, and back at Steve. _Me? But-_ He turns his head quickly to see Bucky, still standing back and watching them with his hands in his pockets. If anyone were to take up the shield, shouldn’t it be him? But Bucky nods, a clear sign to go ahead. With a sense that his whole life is changing, Sam steps forward and reaches down to lift the shield. He can’t help but shoot one last uncertain glance at Steve, and then he slips it onto his left arm. 

It’s not the first time he’s held the shield. Back when they were Avengers, Steve would often toss it to one of them in combat. They all had a chance to train with it, to get a sense for the strange ways it moved. Outside of Steve, Nat was the most comfortable with it, but Sam liked to think he was a close second. Then the Accords came, and the last time he saw the shield whole was at the airport, when they were fighting their friends. 

“How’s it feel?” the old soldier asks. 

The shield feels like the heaviest thing he’s ever held, like a legacy he doesn’t know how to live up to, like something he never knew he wanted until it was offered - but he honestly replies, “Like it’s someone else’s.” How can anyone other than Steve Rogers be _Captain America_? 

“It isn’t,” Steve says, as if it’s just that simple. 

Sam’s been on the receiving end of Cap’s ‘I believe in you’ face enough times to know not to fight it. The shield is his now; he’ll have to find a way to live up to it. Taking a deep breath and swallowing back the lump in his throat, he meets Steve’s calm gaze and resolutely says, “Thank you. I’ll do my best.” 

Steve’s eyes say that he knows the gift for the honor and burden it is. He reaches out to shake Sam’s hand, and as their palms meet, lays his left hand over their clasped ones. “That’s why it’s yours,” he says. 

Grinning at the response and still a little overcome, Sam takes note of the man’s wedding ring. He has a pretty good guess who the matching ring belongs to, but who knows? With just a hint of humor, he quirks an eyebrow and asks, “You want to tell me about her?” 

The old man’s smile changes, becoming a little bit wistful but mostly fond. “No,” he replies, returning to looking out over the lake. “No, I don’t think I will.” 

Sam chuckles. Glancing back toward Bucky, he tips his head to indicate that the other super soldier should come over and start getting reacquainted with Steve, too. Maybe Barnes can pry some details about the Missus out of the codger. Not that there's much doubt about her identity, all things considered. 

From back by the platform, Banner yells, “I need some help over here!” He sounds… scared? 

Sam is moving before he can think about what he’s doing, running back the way they came. What he’s going to do against something that scares the Hulk, he doesn’t know, but he accepted the shield and that means he’s damn well going to try. He passes Barnes, who’s hesitating as he looks back at Steve. 

“Stay there,” Bucky calls to the old man as he falls in behind Sam. “We’ll handle this!” 

Yeah, that’s probably not going to fly. Banner is facing toward the platform, his bulk hiding whatever the danger is. Knowing that Barnes and Cap will be right behind him, Sam runs up alongside Banner, ready for anything- 

And immediately grinds to a halt, his brain shorting out. 

Instead of an obvious threat, there’s a little white girl wearing a time-travel suit just like the one Steve had on when he left only minutes before. Her red hair is wet and she’s pale and shivering, her arms wrapped around her body. Except for the fact that she’s maybe thirteen years old, she looks so much like Natasha that it’s like taking a punch to the chest. 

“What the hell?” Sam whispers. 

Tears fill the kid's green eyes as she looks up at Sam and reverently says, “You’re alive.” Her voice sounds awful, like she’s got pneumonia or something, and her breathing is shallow and gasping. 

“That’s my line,” Sam says inanely, half stunned. His brain keeps stuttering, insisting that it’s _Nat_ in front of him, but that was supposed to be impossible. He glances at Banner and Bucky to find that they both look as shocked as he feels. Steve’s made his way over as well, and he’s staring at the kid like he can’t believe what he’s seeing. Sam isn't imagining the resemblance then - they all see it. Turning back to the girl, he takes a step closer, studying her face for some sign of… Hell, he’s honestly not even sure. “Do you know who I am?” 

The girl nods but doesn’t say anything. _Evasion_ , a memory of the Black Widow says in his head. She looks past him, gaze sliding over Bucky like she’s never seen him before and landing on Steve. Her puzzled expression makes Sam’s breath catch because it’s so _familiar_. He watches avidly as she recognizes the old man. When her eyes go wide and she says, “ _Steve_?!” - that’s when he knows that through some miracle, it really is Natasha. She’s _alive_. 

Then she coughs, sharp and harsh and painful-sounding, and stops breathing. 

“Hey, whoa there,” Sam says, panicking as Nat starts to collapse forward. He catches her by the upper arms, barely keeping her on her feet. Urgently, he commands, “Breathe, Romanoff.” 

She doesn’t, not really. She _tries_ , but it’s clear she’s not getting any air. Wide-eyed and clinging to him with white-knuckled fingers but otherwise unbelievably calm - _that's just like her, Jesus, how is this even happening?_ \- Nat chokes, "Down.” He obeys quickly, helping her make a controlled descent to kneel on the ground. If she doesn't start breathing properly, it's only a matter of time before she passes out. If she doesn’t start breathing... 

"I'm getting the car," Bucky says, and his running footsteps pound away toward where they parked. 

Banner reaches down and taps the wristband of the quantum suit, causing the whole thing to peel away and leaving Nat in something resembling her black Avengers uniform. Sam can't help but stare - her usually skin-tight catsuit is now baggy pretty much everywhere. It's also soaked through, and the girl shivers violently as the mid-November air hits her. His hands shift on the loose material and he hisses out a shocked breath as he registers the temperature of her body underneath. Banner gives him a startled look over her head and Sam snaps, “She’s like ice." 

Alarmed, the scientist lays his huge, green hand on her back. Immediately, Nat arches back into the contact and lets out a pathetic, airless little noise that makes Sam's stomach twist. Hypothermic, wet, barely able to breathe, and decades younger than she should be - what the hell happened to her? The shield is starting to feel awfully heavy on his forearm, but he can't let her go to take it off. Getting down on Nat’s level, he tries to talk her through whatever's happening like it's a panic attack, coaxing, “Stay with us, okay? Don’t try to talk, just relax and focus on breathing. In and out, come on.” 

Nat’s glassy gaze finds him and she keeps her eyes locked on his as she struggles for air. It takes at least a minute for her to stabilize, and even then she can barely gasp out his name, a tear running down her cheek. Getting her breathing under control isn't doing her much good - she’s only panting shallowly and her lips are starting to turn blue. “I’m okay,” she wheezes, completely unconvincing. Determination sharpens her adolescent features and she looks almost like herself as she forces out, “Have to-” 

“Have to nothing,” Sam says firmly, cutting her off. As relieved as he is that she's not actively dying right that second, he knows they're not out of the woods. She’s in really rough shape. Natasha has never been able to stop when she’s got a goal, but if she pushes herself in this condition… He’s not going to think about it. She’s going to be fine. “Seriously, don’t talk.” 

Nat coughs weakly and sways in his grip, eyes unfocused for a terrifying moment. Just when he thinks she's going to pass out, she pushes through it and manages to choke, “Have to… go back… for others.” 

Startled, Sam asks, “What others?” 

“Sacrifices,” she gasps. They're losing her. She's leaning her whole weight into his grip on her arms, too weak to maintain her balance. Sam's going to leave bruises if he holds her up like this for much longer, but he's terrified that laying her down will kill her faster. Natasha's shaking and blinking sluggishly, her eyes so full of unshed tears that he doubts she can even see, and still she's trying to talk. “Vor-” 

In a desolate voice, Banner says, “Vormir.” Isn’t that the planet where Nat died? A glance up more or less confirms it - the guy looks devastated. “I can get the telemetry from her guidance device.” 

Steve leans past Sam to lay a wrinkled hand on the girl’s trembling shoulder. “It’s okay, Nat,” he reassures her. Old age bedamned, he’s still got that Captain America steel in his voice as he promises, “We’ll find them and bring them home.” 

Nat’s eyes rise to meet Steve’s and the tension in her pale face eases. Her bluing lips curve into a sad little smile as she whispers, “Missed you.” Then she’s gone, her eyes going unfocused and sliding shut as she turns boneless. 

“Don’t do this to me, Romanoff,” Sam begs. He drags the girl close, getting his shield-free arm behind her shoulders and tipping her head back to keep her airway open. Without conscious control, her little body weakly jerks against him, fighting for a deep breath she’s clearly not capable of. The thought that Natasha came back from the dead just to suffocate while they watch makes him sick. 

“Sam,” Steve says shakily. His faded blue eyes are locked on Nat's pale face, but he reaches toward the shield. 

Sam lets him take it, freeing up his left hand so he can take her pulse. It's fast, but still strong. _Where the hell is Barnes with that car_? 

“Where is it?! Where is it?!” Banner is saying frantically, patting himself down. He strides over to the control console and sees his goal, lunging to pick up a tablet. In seconds he’s got it to his ear, and a moment later he urgently says, “Strange, we-” A pause and he makes a cutting gesture as Bucky finally pulls up in the SUV. Sam glances toward him and back to the Hulk, torn on whether or not he should move Nat to the vehicle. Strange's magic can get them to a hospital much faster than anything with wheels. “No listen, we need help,” Banner begs into his phone, “You’re a doctor, aren’t you? We've got an emergency, Natasha's here at the platform and she-” He stops again, frustrated, and then barks, “Yes, Romanoff!” 

A portal opens in midair beside the platform, a hole to another place surrounded by a cascade of golden sparks. The cape-wearing, actual wizard known as Dr. Strange strides through with an impatient, put-upon expression and immediately pauses when he gets a look at the scene. He raises a brow at Steve and Nat and comments, "Well, this is unexpected." 

“She’s barely breathing,” Sam reports quickly, “and she’s ice cold. She was talking before she passed out a minute ago.” 

Strange’s face smoothes out and he steps forward briskly. He seems to shift into a different gear as he kneels to do a quick, professional check of Nat’s vitals with his shaking, scarred hands. “Lay her down,” he commands, and Sam swiftly does, sitting back on his heels to be out of the way. The wizard gestures with a surprising grace, summoning his magic in the form of slowly spinning mandalas that hover above Nat’s body. This close, Sam can see the intricate linework in the glowing, golden wheel over her chest and smell the faintest whiff of ozone. 

She's still quietly choking, struggling for air she can’t get. 

Strange frowns, but it’s a thoughtful rather than worried expression. He mutters something and makes a gesture over her chest like he’s tugging on a string. The mandala rises, pulling the girl up as well even though there's no visible connection. Her torso lifts off the ground and her head falls back, unsupported. Natasha gags and goes still. She’s no longer trying to breathe, just hanging suspended in the wizard’s grasp, utterly limp. 

“Hey,” Banner says, panicky. 

Ignoring him, Strange makes another tugging motion and Natasha's lips part as if she were about to speak. Then he beckons. Her throat moves oddly, like a reverse swallow. Strange beckons again, more forcefully. 

Suddenly, something blobby and colorless pokes out between her blue lips. Sam watches in horror as a long ribbon of clear liquid flows sinuously out of Nat’s mouth and rises toward Strange’s hand like a curious snake. It can’t be coming from her stomach - that wouldn’t have messed with her breathing - but there’s too much for it all to have been in her lungs. How was she conscious at all? How was she _talking_ with a chest full of water?! When the stream finally stops, Natasha abruptly gasps, coughs, and draws in a deep, shuddering breath. 

Sam sags with relief. She's still unconscious, but she’s breathing easily as the invisible grip on her body lowers her gently back down to the grass. The magic light show fizzles out as if it was never there. A ragged sigh at his shoulder reminds him of Steve’s presence, and he glances back to see the old man looking shaken as he clutches the shield with both wrinkled hands. “You alright, Cap?” Sam asks. 

“Don’t worry about me,” Steve says with a slightly unsteady chuckle. “I’m tougher than I look.” 

Sam grins at him and turns to look at Dr. Strange. The clear liquid has formed into a ball that levitates above the wizard’s hand while he studies it as if he can see something they can’t. “Well, that’s unexpected,” he says, sounding fascinated. 

Anxiously, Banner asks, “Is it water?” 

“Hmm,” Strange hums instead of answering. He twists his hands in a complex pattern and some other clear substance flows out of thin air, surrounding the sphere of liquid and containing it completely, then crystallizing. As he stands, he plucks the now-solid ball out of the air and tucks it into a pocket in his odd outfit. Looking around at the other men, he briskly asks, “Are you still staying at that resort of Stark’s?” 

“Yeah,” Sam replies. “But we should take Nat to a hospital.” Her lips are quickly regaining color and she doesn’t look quite as deathly pale, but she hasn’t woken up. And she's still cold, he realizes with an internal curse as he lightly brushes her cheek with his fingers. 

Sardonically, Strange counters, “I wouldn’t recommend it.” He casually opens another portal, this one large enough to accommodate the SUV. On the other side is the nearly-empty parking lot of the former rehab facility that spent five years as the Stark Youth Home. Nowadays, with the kids gone, Pepper’s letting Sam and some of the other homeless Avengers use it for a temporary base. It’s not quite up to Tony Stark standards in terms of tech, but it’s been a nice place to regroup. 

“Guess I’ll bring the car through,” Bucky says, moving back toward the driver’s seat. 

Sam shifts to a squat and carefully gets his arms under Nat’s back and knees, lifting her against his chest before pushing up to stand. She’s a deadweight, but lighter than she used to be. It strikes him as oddly funny that she’s probably less than a hundred pounds soaking wet. Suppressing a slightly hysterical laugh, he takes a deep breath to steady himself. There's too much going on to crack up now. Cap’s old, Nat’s young. Shit, who’s the leader of the Avengers now? Banner? 

Shaking his head, Sam walks through the portal with Steve and Hulk behind him. He can hear the SUV moving, but pays it no mind as he strides toward the glass-panelled front door. It opens before he can reach it, Hope van Dyne emerging with an expression of surprise and concern. 

"What happened?" Hope asks, holding the door open. Her gaze darts from Nat to Steve to Strange's portal. "Did something go wrong? The data from Captain Rogers' return-" 

"He didn't return," Banner interrupts. "Or, he did, but the data would be from Natasha…" 

Hope's eyes widen and fix on the kid, realization dawning. "Isn't she-?" 

"Not anymore," Sam says as he passes through the door and into the massive foyer. 

Janet van Dyne is there, stepping forward as soon as Sam is far enough inside to leave the entrance clear. She brushes Natasha's damp hair away from her face as she checks her pulse, frowning and chidingly asking, "What happened? Does she need to go to a hospital?" 

"Nope," Sam replies. "Doctor's orders." They both turn to look toward the door. Steve is inside and Banner's squeezed his bulk through. Strange enters with Hope on his heels, and Bucky runs up in time to catch the door before it closes behind the Wasp. 

"They can't do anything for her in a hospital," Strange says. "Does this place have an infirmary?" 

Her lips a thin line, Janet nods and replies, "The nurse's office. Follow me." 

*** 

The nurse's office is one of the rooms that makes it obvious to Sam that the building started out as a high-priced rehab facility. From the pale wooden floor to the glass-topped executive desk, it's way too sleek and fancy for an orphanage. Each of the four patient rooms is only set up for a single pampered patient. The younger van Dyne had run ahead, and Sam can hear her moving around in the ‘Employees Only’ storeroom behind the desk. It’s a Stark facility, so no doubt the office is well stocked. Hope emerges with a heap of blankets and a hospital gown. “Found something to change her into,” she reports. 

“Good. We should get her out of this before we put her in a bed,” Janet says approvingly, plucking at Natasha’s sodden uniform. “Lay her on the desk for now, it’ll be easy to clean. Hope, give me a hand. The rest of you-” 

“-will be right outside,” Sam concludes. He places the unconscious girl carefully on the thick slab of glass and turns to usher the others out. Steve seems reluctant to go, but Bucky and Banner have already backed out the door. “Come on, Cap.” 

Behind him, Strange says, “I’ll be staying, since I’m the only actual medical professional here.” 

“Great,” Janet replies, her voice accompanied by the sound of a zipper being pulled down. “You’re telekinetic, right?” 

Sam closes the door behind himself hastily. Turning to look at the others, he finds them standing in a loose circle looking various degrees of awkward. Well, Bucky looks constipated, Steve worried, and Banner stunned. The silence is pretty awkward, though. Sam doesn’t try to break it. He’s still coping with the new shifts in his reality, his body shaking from the effort of carrying Natasha so far. Funny, he barely noticed the exertion until he put her down. He finds himself staring at Steve, cataloguing all the changes that age has wrought on the man. So familiar, yet so different. What’s he going to do now that he’s handed off the shield? Retire? Take a Fury-like role and hang out in a command center somewhere? 

A cranky voice calls, “Who’s the girl?” Sam turns to see Dr. Pym slowly making his way down the hall toward the group. He leans heavily on his cane with every step, the brace on his left knee making him ungainly. He must have seen Nat on the security cameras. 

“Natasha Romanoff,” Banner says, clearly a little shell-shocked. “She’s alive.” 

“What did you do?” Bucky asks Steve. “I thought you went back to ‘45?” 

“I did,” the old soldier protests. “Well, ‘47, actually. But I don’t… I don’t think I did this.” 

“Excuse me,” Pym says tightly, his eyes glinting, “Did you just say that you used my technology to take an unnecessary joyride to 1947?” As he takes in Steve’s aged appearance and the shield he still clutches in both hands, he looks increasingly apoplectic. 

Steve seems resigned, as if he’s not really surprised but very much not in the mood for this conversation. “It wasn’t unnecessary.” 

“Bullshit!” Pym counters, banging his cane against the wooden floor. “The whole point of returning those damn stones was to shut down the branch timelines! Not to create more of them!” 

“There won’t be any effect on this timeline,” Steve replies calmly. “Your counterpart agreed - since the Infinity Stones had already been returned to where they came from, the inter-chronology movements of one person-” 

Pym looks mad enough to spit nails. “Oh, so you did manage to do your job, then!” 

“Yes, of course,” Steve says. “I returned the stones and Mjolnir as promised. I just… took a long detour on the way back.” 

In a low, vicious tone, Pym snarls, “Of all the selfish-” 

He’s interrupted by the sound of a woman shouting, her words muffled by the door. Sam realizes too late that Nat doesn’t know any of the people with her. If she woke up and felt threatened- Surprisingly it’s Bucky who beats him to the door and bursts into the office first. 

Nat and Janet are nowhere in sight, but Nat’s crumpled suit and gear are spread out on the desk. Strange is standing in the middle of the office, arms crossed as he regards Hope van Dyne with exasperation. 

Hope is mid-tirade, shouting at the sorcerer, “-because it’s completely reprehensible!” 

“What’s going on?” Sam demands. 

Hope whirls toward him, the resemblance to her father much more striking in her anger. “He injected Romanoff with a sedative,” she snaps, hazel eyes sparking with fury. “Besides the fact that we have no idea what may be in her system, he can’t just whip something out of his cape and drug her _without consent_.” 

“Feel free to report me to the medical board so they can launch an inquiry,” Strange advises her snidely. “I’m sure that the testimony will be fascinating.” Turning to the group and raking a withering glare across the lot of them, he drawls, “I’ll remind you all that despite your multitude of Ph.D.s, none of you are actually qualified to administer so much as a Tylenol to a patient. There’s nothing foreign in the kid's system, which I know because I checked. And yes, I did it with _magic_. The only thing she needs right now is rest, so I gave her a sedative to ensure that she gets some instead of being pestered all night.” 

Hope and her father bristle, ready to snap back, but Strange steamrolls on, directing his words to Sam. “You seem like the responsible adult here,” he says briskly. “Make sure the kid gets plenty of fluids when she wakes up. She should be able to eat and drink whatever she likes, but if she had allergies before then it’s possible she’ll still need to worry about that. Give me a call if she starts glowing or speaking in tongues.” 

_Speaking in tongues_?! “Wait,” Sam says quickly. “What was the stuff that you pulled out of her? Was it just water? You didn’t say.” 

“That's what I'm going to find out,” Strange replies ominously. With a wave of his hand, he spins a portal open and leaves, passing through into what looks like an old museum. 

Hope throws her hands up and growls in inarticulate frustration before turning on her heel and stalking into one of the patient rooms. With a glance at the others, Sam quickly follows her. It’s a larger room than is really needed for an exam room in a nurse’s office, half the space empty and the rest occupied only by a real hospital bed, a rolling side table, and a couple of padded plastic chairs. Natasha is asleep, tucked in up to her chin under a heap of blankets. Jesus, she looks young. Every time he sees her it’s a fresh shock, and he pauses to absorb it again. Her color’s a lot better, at least. She’s breathing just fine, in that almost-silent way she always did. 

Janet is standing by the bedside with a pensive expression, but she looks up as her daughter returns. She gives the younger woman a sympathetic smile before turning her attention to Sam. “His bedside manner may be lacking,” she says wryly, in what may be the understatement of the century, “but Dr. Strange did seem to know what he was doing. I don’t think he’s done Miss Romanoff any harm.” 

“You think he’s right? That she’ll be okay with some rest?” Sam asks as the others file in behind him. Banner hovers just outside the doorway, but a glance back shows that Pym, Steve, and Bucky have all entered the room. 

Nodding, Janet steps away from the bed. “I hope so. Her vitals are good, at least.” She sighs and shakes her head, sending her loose, silver hair tumbling over her shoulders before continuing, “Maybe it’s for the best. We’ll have plenty of time to take some samples and get them processed. It won’t hurt to have more information when we question her.” 

Sam’s gut twists at the thought of questioning Nat, but Janet’s right. They need to know how and why she came back from the dead, if only to make sure that she’s not in any danger. Also, he hasn’t forgotten that she didn’t seem to recognize Barnes earlier. Maybe it was oxygen deprivation, but he’ll feel a lot better when they can talk to her and confirm that she’s completely herself. They also have to ask about the people she wants them to rescue. 

“Natasha asked for our help,” Steve points out, stepping around Sam to approach the bedside. It’s like he’s a mind-reader sometimes. Or maybe they’re still on the same page, even after decades of separation. “She said she had to go back for the other sacrifices on Vormir.” 

Pym scowls. He’s hunching slightly over his cane; he probably pushed himself too hard rushing all the way from the cafeteria. “Well, if she travelled through time to get here, then we have no need to be hasty. As you’ve so flagrantly demonstrated, _Captain_ , we can take all the time we want before undertaking any missions.” 

“That’s true,” Janet agrees crisply. Her tone is all business now, putting a stop to the brewing argument. “But we’d already decided to limit the use of time travel, and that means getting the equipment broken down and locked up as soon as possible. The faster we can deal with this situation and do that, the better.” At Pym’s mulish expression, she gentles her voice and says, “Hank, if there are people trapped, far away from their loved ones and possibly in danger…” 

It’s amazing to watch the surly scientist melt, but he does it _every single time_ his wife turns that look on him. Pym nods reluctantly and turns to head out without another word, while their daughter watches with misty eyes. One of these days, Sam is going to have to get the whole story on that family dynamic, maybe from Scott. 

Janet smiles lovingly at her husband’s back, but then she’s back to business. “We’re going to need whatever diagnostic equipment we can put together. Full spectrum labs, if we can manage,” she says. “Dr. Banner?” 

“Yeah,” Banner says. “I can remotely access the system in my lab back home to run the numbers, if we can do the basic analysis here.” 

“I think we can manage,” Janet replies. “Hank can help. Hope and I will sort out the samples.” 

Banner nods and steps away from the door, presumably following Pym back to the cafeteria. 

Janet turns to her daughter, everything about her going a little softer as she orders, “See if they have equipment to draw blood in the storeroom and maybe check the science classrooms to see how nicely Mr. Stark outfitted this place. I’ll see what we have in our luggage.” 

Hope nods as she heads for the door, and suggests on her way out, “It might not be necessary, but maybe we should also use the scanner in Lab C.” 

“Good idea,” Janet replies. “Sam, could you give me a hand?” 

Sam hesitates, though he’s immediately unsure why he does. It’s not as if it will do any good to hover at Nat’s bedside while she’s drugged into unconsciousness. 

“I’ll stay with Nat,” Steve offers. He absently smoothes the covers by the girl’s shoulder, affection plain on his face as he looks down at her. The shield’s no longer in his hands - he’s leaned it against the side of the bed. 

“I’ll stay, too,” Bucky says, crossing his arms. “Just in case the kid tries to beat Stevie up.” 

Sam snorts at that, his nebulous worry fading. Cap may be old, but it’s clear from the way he moves that he’d still be formidable in a fight. “Alright,” he agrees. “Call if you need anything, okay?” Bucky has his number, at least. Reaching down, he picks up the shield, one eye on Steve as his fingers close on the cool metal of the rim. He’ll have to take a quick detour to put the shield in his room until he can get a rig to carry it on his back, but he doesn’t want to leave it behind. 

The old soldier nods, smiling approvingly. Sam nods back and turns to go. At the door, he glances over his shoulder one last time and watches Steve hang his jacket on the back of the chair beside Nat’s bed and ease into the seat. What a pair the two of them make - they look like a loving grandad and his sick grandkid. It’s hard to believe Sam’s looking at Captain America and the Black Widow. At his friends. 

He leaves before he can get choked up, closing the door softly behind him and following Janet and Hope out of the office. It’s going to be okay. Steve and Nat are alive, that’s the important thing. They’ll figure the rest out as they go. 

*** 

_Bucky_

Bucky isn’t remotely surprised when Steve offers to watch over the girl. He looks at her like she’s a miracle. To be fair, it’s impossible to blame him for that. In a world of magic aliens and plenty of other weird shit, a woman coming back from the dead as a kid still rates pretty highly. Yet somehow, it doesn’t feel nearly as strange to Bucky as being in a room with the elderly man who used to be his childhood friend. They both managed to make it to a hundred years old while still arguably being young men - always in eerie lockstep physically despite the ways their paths diverged - but that’s over now. Steve's finally left him behind. 

Normally, silence doesn’t bother Bucky, but this new version of Steve Rogers presents so many questions. He gives in to curiosity and ventures, “I’m kind of surprised you came back.” 

The codger seems startled. He blinks his faded eyes at Bucky and gives him a wounded look. “Of course I did, Buck. I couldn’t just disappear on you and Sam.” 

“Huh,” Bucky huffs thoughtfully. There’s some truth to that - Sam would never have stopped looking for Steve if he thought he was lost. Not coming back would have just led to more time travel hijinks and messed up timelines. “So what was the plan, then? Come to say goodbye to everyone, pass on the shield, and pop back to your retirement?” 

“No. I’m home to stay. They don’t need me over there anymore, and I thought…” 

“That we might need you here? No offense, but it doesn’t seem like that was a consideration for the last what? Eighty years?” 

Startled and defensive, the old man protests, “I did tell you I was considering-” 

“Yeah, pal, that conversation was yesterday for me,” Bucky interrupts, rolling his eyes. Regarding his old friend seriously, he insists, “And I meant what I said - I’m glad you decided to find some happiness for yourself.” 

“But…?” 

“But nothing.” He doesn’t want to look at Steve’s withered face anymore. Pushing away from the wall, he walks to the foot of the bed and studies the sleeping Romanoff instead. She’s a cute kid. All tucked up under the blankets, she looks like a helpless little waif. Key word: _looks_. He’s got to remember that there’s a Black Widow hiding behind that baby face, and Bucky may be the only one who sees the wolf instead of the lamb. It’s already obvious that Steve and the others aren’t capable of treating her as a threat. Their affection will make them easy prey if she attacks. If that wasn’t bad enough, the kid looks strangely familiar in a way that he doesn’t want to examine too closely, especially since he never got that vibe off the adult version. To be honest, she kind of makes his skin crawl. 

“Buck?” 

The worried, questioning tone draws Bucky back to the moment and he sighs. Right, they were talking about Steve’s detour into the past in search of happiness. Thinking back to the tired, worn-down Steve of a day before, he explains, “I didn’t care for the look in your eyes. I knew you were going to do something stupid, and I figured that if it wasn’t going back to retire in the past, you’d probably find some way to sacrifice yourself for the Widow.” He smiles humorlessly when the silver head bows in his peripheral vision. Yeah, he’s still got the punk’s number. Shaking his own head, he admits, “Just going to be hard in a few years when you’re gone.” 

Steve snorts. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily. The serum may not have stopped me aging, but it sure slowed it down. The doctors say I have a good thirty or forty years left in me.” He grins at Bucky’s surprised look, a hint of mischief in his faded blue eyes. “I don’t move quite as fast as I used to, that’s all.” 

There’s this old cartoon Bucky saw a long time ago through the window of a hotel room - some kind of green monster watching people sing hand-in-hand and having his heart grow to fill his chest. He feels like that, like his chest is swelling up with relief and something he might call love if he was sappy about it. Struggling to keep the emotion off his face, he manages a mostly steady voice to drawl, “Guess I still gotta keep you outta trouble for a while longer, huh?” 

Steve chuckles like the old man he is and settles back in his chair. "I suppose so." 

Just like old times. “So,” Bucky says, "Tell me what you've been up to." 

*** 

_Sam_

Eager to get away from the arguing scientists, Sam brings lunch to Steve and Bucky about an hour and a half after leaving them with babysitting duty. Steve and Bucky are talking in low voices when he enters, but they break off the conversation before he hears anything. Nat’s still peacefully asleep. “Hey,” Sam says, awkwardly maneuvering through the door with a tray in each hand, “Thought you guys might be hungry.” 

Bucky steps away from the wall and takes one well-laden tray quickly, retreating to a corner to eat it standing up. He digs in with the focus of a super soldier who hasn’t eaten in more than four hours. 

“Thank you, Sam,” Steve says graciously, accepting his own tray of sandwiches and chips with a welcoming smile. “Do you have time to sit down for a bit?” 

“Yeah, of course.” He drops into the unoccupied chair on the opposite side of Nat’s bed. Her chest rises and falls reassuringly under the blankets. “The geniuses are just about done with processing Nat's gear, so they’ll be by to take those samples soon, according to Hope.” 

Steve nods as he sets his meal on the small side table and opens the bottle of water included with his lunch. “Good.” He’s more restrained than Bucky, but stays mostly quiet and listens attentively to a layman's update on the progress of the scientists while he polishes off one sandwich and about half the chips. To Sam’s surprise, that’s all he eats before nudging the wheeled table toward Bucky. 

“Appetite not what it used to be, huh?” Sam observes. “I guess that you don’t need as much fuel to shuffle around a senior home.” 

“I’m not that far gone,” Steve scoffs. 

“Sure, grandpa,” Bucky retorts as he emerges from his corner to claim one of Steve’s abandoned sandwiches. 

The old man laughs. “Oh, you young people,” he says, eyes twinkling. “Old age isn’t so bad. It’s actually kind of nostalgic.” Leaning back in his chair, he muses, “Reminds me a bit of life before the serum. I have a few pills to take, mostly vitamins, and I have to watch what I eat sometimes. It’s like being my old self again except my heart and lungs are in better shape, and my aches and pains are from old injuries instead of rheumatism. Better, even - I still can’t get the flu.” 

Sam has to smile at that. Steve’s enhanced immune system meant that he was always the one who had to look after his teammates when they were sick. He used to say it was a nice change in circumstances as he made them eat his terrible chicken soup. Awful as it was, the thought of having a bowl for old times’ sake is almost appealing now. Maybe he could convince Steve to make some for Nat. No, she’d kill him. Shaking his head, he changes the subject and asks, “So I was wondering, man - when you came back, why didn’t you appear on the platform? I’m not gonna lie, I had a minute there where I freaked out a little.” 

Bucky snorts. 

“That’s a bit of a long story,” Steve admits, folding his arms across his chest. “I ran into a few issues with the return trip and had to get help from some friends on the other side. They were able to retrieve the precise coordinates I left from, but not the signature of the platform, so we fudged the placement a little to be safe. Just had to make sure I didn’t reappear before I left, since that would have created another branch timeline. Can’t change the past, you know. Always have to aim for the future.” 

“Wait, so you just got back-” 

“About five seconds after I left,” Cap confirms. 

Sam frowns, just realizing that he last saw the case the shield was in leaning against that bench near the quantum platform. It didn’t look like it held much, but maybe Steve travelled light. “You didn’t bring anything back? Not even pictures?” He’s going to be a little disappointed that he’s never going to see photos of Cap’s kids. Assuming he had kids, of course. 

“Oh no, it’s all in my pocket, shrunk down,” Steve says. He protectively pats the sleeve of the jacket hanging on the back of his chair. “Got everything I need right in here." Conspiratorially, he adds, "Though I’d appreciate it if you kept that to yourself for the moment. I’d rather not have Dr. Pym try to confiscate his counterpart’s technology. Things were a little different over there.” 

“Huh,” Sam says, nonplussed. Now he’s really curious what the man might have brought with him. What does this new, old version of Steve Rogers consider important? 

Steve regards him shrewdly. “How are you holding up, Sam? It’s been quite a day.” 

That’s an understatement. Thoughtfully, Sam says, “I’m adjusting. It’ll take some time to get used to all of this.” He makes a quick gesture that encompasses Steve and Nat and the situation in general. “Right now, I guess I’m a little jumpy about Nat being so sick. Worried about this mission, too.” 

“The other sacrifices,” Steve agrees with a somber nod. He looks like he’s remembering something, his eyes unfocused as he frowns. “Vormir was a dead world, so it should just be a medevac.” 

“Let’s hope so,” Sam replies. 

The sound of the door to the nurse’s office opening and an indistinct murmur of voices heralds the arrival of Janet and Hope and the end of his break. Sam sighs and stands, moving to collect the trays and get them out of the way for the ladies and their equipment. “Guess it’s time to get back to work.” 

*** 

_Bucky_

Romanoff sleeps for hours, through several visits by the van Dynes and Sam returning to deliver dinner. It’s well into the evening before she finally starts to stir, not long after the lights have automatically switched to a dimmer nighttime setting. Bucky and Steve go silent, waiting to see if she’ll settle back down. She doesn’t. Her face scrunches up as she begins to fight the drugs. After a solid ten minutes of tense microexpressions and fitful squirming, she finally manages to get her eyes cracked open. 

Steve shifts in his chair and the girl lethargically rolls her head toward him. There’s no recognition in her hazy green eyes, despite Steve smiling tearfully at her. She’s aware enough to notice Bucky as well, but she says nothing. 

“Welcome back, Nat,” Steve says fondly. “There was some kind of fluid in your lungs, but Dr. Strange says you’re going to be fine after you've had a few days' rest. No permanent damage." 

Romanoff takes a deep breath and seems to fade a bit, her eyes fluttering shut for a moment before she opens them again with an effort. She sluggishly focuses on Steve, looking dazed and puzzled. She seems to have figured out who he is, at least - her expression is almost too open, the recognition and trust easy to read. After a dragging pause, she uncertainly replies, “...Okay?” 

“She’s still out of it,” Bucky cautions Steve. Honestly, she probably shouldn't even be conscious. To the girl, he explains, “Strange sedated you, Romanova. Said you needed your rest.” 

The kid squirms under the layers of blankets, bringing her arms up to hug herself. Her brow furrows with discomfort. 

“You’re alright,” Steve says soothingly. With gentle, almost paternal concern, he asks, “What happened to you on Vormir, Nat? What do you remember?” 

Confused, the girl asks, “Vormir?” Mentioning the place where she died might have been a bad call - she immediately gets even more agitated and plaintively asks, “Where’s Clint?” 

No one’s mentioned Barton around her yet - that she’s asking for him does a lot to confirm her identity. Bucky relaxes a bit and sees his friend do the same. “He’s on his way,” Steve assures her. It’s a lie, technically, but there’s no doubt Barton will come running when he hears that his former partner is breathing again. “He’s fine, don’t worry.” Leaning in a little, he prompts, “But after- What happened after Clint left Vormir?” 

The kid eases back, comforted. Trusting. For a moment she’s quiet, focused on Steve. “I was dead,” she replies softly, and Bucky’s blood goes cold. She says it like it’s a fond memory, a little smile playing about her lips. “In the garden. It was nice. No pain, nothing… nothing bad. Was peaceful.” Romanoff drifts for a moment, lost in thought, then slowly blinks and furrows her brow a little as she continues, “Told them he was gonna destroy it. There was thunder, like a trial. Everything broke apart, the ground, the trees. We fell and I was underwater, in the dark. Had to choose. Then it hurt, and so much water, thought I got it all out.” 

Steve is eating it up. His eyes shine with unshed tears as he nods along like she’s making perfect sense. Meanwhile, Bucky can’t help but make a mental list of questions. When she says ‘them’, does she mean the other sacrifices? And what does she mean by ‘trial’? At least the drowning thing is sort of explained - if she got dropped in water when she came back… Well, Bucky knows from experience that it’s almost impossible not to suck in a breath when you suddenly get submerged in cold liquid. 

The kid shakes her head, suddenly looking disoriented. She pouts at Steve and slurs her words a little as she asks, “Why're you _old_? Were young when you put the stone back.” 

Steve stiffens and goes pale. Unmistakably guilty, he asks, “You saw that?” 

Romanoff hums, eyes starting to go unfocused. Looks like the drugs are catching up with her again. 

Steve sees it, too. Concerned, he leans forward and says, “Nat? Are you alright?” 

In an instant, her eyes slide shut and she’s out like a light. The kid huffs out a little breath before going quiet. 

Steve sighs, sitting back in his chair. He looks troubled. 

Bucky steps away from the wall, taking a few steps closer to the bed. “What did you do when you put the stone back?” he asks. If they can get her to tell her side and Steve can corroborate it… Well, that still wouldn’t prove she’s really Romanoff, but it would strengthen the connection to the Infinity Stone. Maybe it would give them some clues about why she came back. 

The old man glances at him uneasily before looking back at the girl. In a quiet, shaky voice, he says, “It was a long time ago. I climbed the mountain, talked to the- the Guardian a bit. I went to stand at the edge of the cliff and looked down, but Nat’s body was already gone. So I just… prayed, I suppose. Told her we won, that we missed her... that if I couldn’t bring her back, I hoped she was at peace. Then I dropped the stone and it vanished in a flash of light.” His jaw works as he pauses, struggling to hold on to his composure. Misty-eyed, he shakes his silver head sadly and croaks out, “She was still gone. I had… a bit of a bad moment, then. I…” He clears his throat and shakes his head sharply. “That was my last stop before going back to 1947.” 

There’s guilt in Steve’s voice, but before Bucky can probe further, the girl starts to stir again. 

Hopefully, Steve says, "Nat?" 

"Give her a minute," Bucky cautions. 

The girl rolls her head back and forth, getting a look around as she blinks awake. It takes her a bit to notice their presence, and when she does she just looks spacy and confused. Bucky’s only a little surprised when her first, slurred words are, “Who’re you?" 

She might as well have slapped Steve - he falls back against his chair, shaking and looking like he’s going to be sick. 

“It’s the sedative,” Bucky reminds him quickly. “You should wait until it’s out of her system.” 

With a whine, the kid tries to struggle free of her cocoon of blankets and make a break for it. Bucky darts forward to intercept, blocking her path before she makes much progress. His rush is hardly necessary - Romanoff is pitifully uncoordinated, and he doesn’t think she’s playing it up. She hasn’t even managed to roll over before he easily pushes her back into a prone position with a hand on her shoulder. She lashes out at him feebly, crying, "нет!" 

He catches her sluggish swing with ease, the fingers of his right hand curling around her wrist, and has a sudden, visceral flash of _breaking the delicate bones with an easy twist and a wet snap, loud in an otherwise silent room_. He grits his teeth and shakes it off. He doesn't have time to parse the memory fragment; he needs to get the kid under control before she hurts herself. Pinning her arm to the mattress beside her body, he switches to Russian and orders, “не двигайся.” _Don't move_. It seems to work, as Romanoff goes limp instantly. 

Appalled, Steve chides, “Bucky!” 

“I’m not hurting her,” he insists. He's really not - he wouldn't, not when he's in his right mind. He knows what she means to Steve. Turning his attention back to the drugged girl, he firmly tells her, “Just stay in bed.” She’s basically a ragdoll as he physically moves her into roughly the position she started in, though she does whimper like a terrified child when he accidentally brushes her face with the metal hand. He refuses to allow himself to react, focusing on getting her tucked in so he can step away and get some distance between them. 

The girl doesn’t try to move again. She just lies there under the covers, looking confused and scared. He tries to tell himself that this isn’t familiar. 

“Natasha,” Steve says urgently, “You’re okay, Bucky won’t hurt you. He’s not the Winter Soldier anymore, remember?” 

Romanoff is already drifting off again, the lingering grasp of the drugs pulling her back under. Her lashes flutter against her cheeks and then she stills, the fear fading from her features as her breathing evens out. 

Bucky steps away from the bed, wiping his hands off on his jeans. 

“What was that?” the old man asks. It takes Bucky a moment to realize that the question isn’t accusatory. Steve’s watching the girl sleep, his weathered brow furrowed with concern. “She didn’t remember me.” 

“It doesn’t mean anything, Steve,” Bucky sighs. “You realize you look different, right? She just got confused for a moment.” He raises his metal arm pointedly and makes a fist. A little bitterly, he adds, “She sure recognized this.” 

Stubbornly, Steve says, “No, if Natasha remembered you from DC or Bucharest, she’d have known me.” 

Bucky isn’t so sure that the girl was remembering DC or Bucharest or even Odessa. He did a lot of work in Russia over the years. It’s possible that the young Black Widow knew of the Winter Soldier long before she met Steve Rogers. Maybe, though he hopes he’s wrong, maybe even by more than just reputation. Changing the subject, he observes, “Romanoff could be in and out all night. I get that you want to be here, but you probably shouldn’t be sleeping in a chair.” 

The punk scowls like they’re in their teens again and Bucky just reminded him to put on a sweater. Clearly offended, he growls, “I’m not so old that I can’t miss a night of sleep.” 

“Steve-” 

“I won’t leave Natasha alone,” Steve insists. “She’s scared, Buck.” 

Bucky shakes his head, exasperated. “Pal, she's so out of it that she doesn't know which way is up. There's no point in staying, it's just upsetting you.” The girl shifts in her sleep and he makes his way around the bed, leaning close to Steve and lowering his voice to a whisper. “Look, she won’t be alone. We can call Sam to watch her while I take you back to your apartment. We’ll come back tomorrow.” 

“What if Bruce and the others find something?” 

“You heard Dr. van Dyne - they’re gonna be playing with their data all night. In the morning, maybe-” 

“She’d be here for me!” 

“I get that, but Sam-” Movement from the bed catches his eye. Romanoff has turned her head toward them as she blinks awake again. She looks puzzled, but not afraid. Bucky quickly tips his head toward her, signalling to Steve that she’s up. 

Steve turns to look, but he doesn’t say anything this time. They wait for the girl to talk, to see where her head is. 

Drowsily, she murmurs, “You got old, Rogers.” 

Sadness makes Steve look a decade older. “Yeah,” he agrees. “I did.” 

Bucky steps in, hoping to get something useful accomplished before she fades again. He tries to sound pleasant and friendly so Steve doesn’t flip out as he says, “We have to ask about the other sacrifices who need to be rescued. We need to know how much equipment to take to Vormir. How many people are we talking about?” 

The kid’s face twists into an expression of fierce concentration. “Four…” she answers slowly, then corrects herself, “No, the dog, five.” 

_A dog_? Bucky decides not to ask. Skeptically, he ventures, “Really? Only six sacrifices in the history of the universe?” 

"No," Romanoff says, barely audible. "There were more." Her eyes are unfocused, her attention turned inward as her concentration crumbles into mourning. She breathes out shakily and her green eyes suddenly fill with tears, which start to drip down the sides of her face and dampen her bright hair. _Shit_ , he made her cry. 

"Natasha," Steve says, voice unsteady with surprise and concern. He leans toward her and reaches out to touch her shoulder. "Are you alright?" 

"They chose _peace_ ," the girl sobs. “They’re gone.” 

_Oh_ , Bucky realizes, _the others died. Not six sacrifices - six survivors_. He wonders uneasily how many there were in that garden, but there’s no way he’s going to ask. They have to focus on the living - if Romanoff’s condition on arrival is anything to go by, it might be a challenge to keep that number at six. 

Steve traces his trembling, aged fingers over the girl’s tangled hair and down her smooth cheek. "You chose to come back," he says reverently. Grief contorts his face and makes his faded eyes shine as he softly says, "Nat…" 

Bucky can’t stand it anymore. "You should sleep," he says, as nice as he can. "Both of you. Have this conversation in the morning when everyone will remember it." 

As much as Steve might want to object, he reluctantly nods for Romanoff’s sake. He smiles shakily at the girl, gently running the backs of his fingers down the side of her face again. Gently and decisively, in a voice thick with affection, he assures her, "I'll stay 'til you're sleeping and I'll make sure you're not alone when I go. You can rest, Nat. You’re safe." 

Romanoff calms, settling back against the sheets, and nods. The tears are drying up and she’s doing that slow blinking thing again, like it’s too hard to keep her eyes open. Clumsily, she works an arm free of the blankets and reaches for Steve, relaxing when he clasps her smaller hand in his. The fight goes out of her, like all she needed the whole time was for her friend to tell her she’s safe and hold her hand. With a drowsy murmur and a small, contented smile, she drops off into what looks like a deeper, true sleep. 

All the while, Steve watches the girl like she’s the most precious thing in the world. Bucky'd been aware that the two of them were close, and that her death hit his best friend hard. Now he wonders if he underestimated just how deep that connection ran. Thoughtfully, he observes, “You would’ve come back as a young man if you’d known about her.” He’s not sure how he feels about that. Jealous? 

Steve frowns, running his thumb back and forth against the pale skin of Romanoff’s wrist. When he looks up, there’s a hint of remorse in his expression, but his gaze is steady as a rock. “It’s not what you’re thinking, Buck. I did hope to get Natasha back in exchange for the stone. If she’d appeared in front of me when I let go of it, then yes, I would’ve brought her home.” His eyes soften again when he looks at the sleeping girl. “Especially if she was like this.” 

Bucky nods. “How about if she hadn’t died in the first place?” 

“I don’t know,” Steve admits tiredly. “The thing is, I wanted to bring her home either way.” 

“Either…?” It takes him a moment to understand, and then his stomach sinks. “Her body.” 

“Losing someone you love hurts,” the old man says, lost in memory. “But when you can’t even properly say goodbye, when you can’t get that… closure. That’s so much worse. I never saw your body, and look how that turned out.” 

“I’m kind of a special case,” Bucky points out. “Or I used to be, anyway.” 

“Even so,” Steve says. “She… Natasha's body was gone. Just gone. Faded. I couldn’t even return her to her family. That’s when I decided to go to the past instead of coming home. I had to take something back from the universe. Make a better world.” 

Realization dawns. “What was she like over there? Romanoff.” 

Steve smiles fondly, a tear escaping to run unevenly down his wrinkled face. “Happy, mostly. Innocent. _Alive_.” He brings his free hand up to brush a strand of Romanoff’s bright hair away from her face, and the way he looks at her is unmistakably paternal. 

_Jesus Christ, Stevie_. 

The door opens with a loud click, admitting Dr. Strange. The wizard seems engrossed in the large, leather-bound book he’s carrying, his lips moving soundlessly as he runs his fingers down a page. 

“Welcome back, Doc,” Bucky says dryly. 

“Don’t bother summoning the horde,” Strange says absently, not even bothering to look up. “I’m just confirming something.” He keeps his eyes on the page as he makes a series of sharp gestures with his left hand, causing a half-dozen pale, flickering, blue will-o-the-wisps to appear in a line over the girl in the bed. Another gesture turns off the lights in the room, so that the only illumination comes from the eerie little flames and, oddly, the softly glowing pages of the book. “Any signs of consciousness?” 

Bucky eyes the kid, but she doesn’t seem bothered by the dim light. Since Steve is still getting himself back under control, he answers, “She’s woken up a few times, but she’s mostly been out of it.” 

Strange hums, looking back and forth between the book and the flames a couple of times before closing the book and placing it to his side, where it sits in midair as if on an invisible shelf. He glances at Steve before pinning Bucky with a shrewd look, his face ghostlike in shades of blue. “Has she said anything interesting?” 

“Well, she remembers being dead - said she was in a garden. She talked a little about the other sacrifices she wants us to save. Apparently there's only six of them left.” 

Strange looks pensive. He snaps his fingers, snuffing the magical fires and turning the nighttime lights back on. Then he pulls a syringe full of clear liquid out of a pocket and uncaps it. 

Alarmed, Steve blurts, “Hey, now-!” 

“I’m just ensuring that Miss Romanoff sleeps 'til morning, Captain Rogers,” Strange explains, extricating the girl’s other arm from the blankets. “Her body is still waking up, for lack of a better term, and she’ll recover more quickly if she doesn’t move around too much.” Deftly, he produces an alcohol wipe - in the dim light, it almost looks like his _cape_ passes it to him - and cleans the inside of her elbow before neatly injecting the drugs. He doesn’t bother with a bandaid when he’s done; a gesture makes the skin knit instantly, erasing the tiny hole. His cape reaches out, definitely moving on it’s own, to pull the blankets back over her arm and straighten them. "There. Have a good night, gentlemen." 

As Strange turns to leave, Steve pleadingly asks, “Wait. Please. Is Natasha going to be alright?” 

Strange pauses and offers a bland, pasted-on smile. “Your friend is perfectly healthy,” he says dismissively. “Out of professional curiosity, how old are you now, Captain? About one-eighty?” 

The deflection is embarrassingly obvious. Unamused, Bucky drawls, “I think what Steve means is: Is there anything we should know?” 

Sometimes words aren’t important. People speak with their bodies as much as their mouths, unknowingly revealing things they’d rather keep secret. Strange's flicker of hesitation is quickly suppressed, but Bucky doesn't miss much. The doctor plays it off smoothly with a condescending smirk and an offhand quip. Steve seems to buy it, relaxing in his chair. Bucky knows better - Strange doesn’t think the girl is dangerous or in danger, but there's something he's not saying. 

"Thank you for coming earlier," Steve says. "When Bruce called. If you hadn't-" 

Strange looks mildly uncomfortable, but inclines his head in acknowledgement. "Don't mention it," he says brusquely, and leaves the room. Through the open doorway, they can see the yellow light cast by his portal as he escapes. 

"Not a very social guy," Bucky observes. He supposes that he should let Sam and the brains know that Romanoff's been doped up again, so he slides his phone out of his pocket. 

Steve chuckles. 

His phone registers input from his metal hand just fine, but Bucky hates touching the delicate screen with it. The barely audible sound it makes sets his teeth on edge. He types out a quick message right-handed and sends it off. With a surreptitious glance at Steve, who's mooning over Romanoff again, he adds a request for Sam to come by the room. He’s going to need some help if he’s going to pry his old friend away from the kid's side. 

It takes about ten minutes for Sam and the younger van Dyne to reach the nurse’s office. The lady goes straight to Romanoff, checking her vitals and scanning her with one of the handheld gadgets they've been aiming at her all day. 

"Hey," Sam says, choosing to stand at the foot of the bed. As he surveys the scene, he smiles a bit at the hand-holding, but his expression turns serious quickly. "I guess Mr. Wizard decided not to stick around. He say anything interesting?" 

"Not really," Steve admits, absently gesturing for them to keep their voices down, "just that Nat needs more rest." 

Van Dyne sighs, straightening and turning off the scanner. "She’s getting plenty of that," she mutters. "Was she stirring at all before Strange drugged her again?" 

"Yeah, she was in and out," Bucky replies in a low voice. "Mostly coherent. But she’ll probably sleep through the night, now, right?" At her nod, he turns to Sam to say, “I need to get Steve back to his apartment. Can you-?” 

“Bucky,” Steve snaps, glowering at him. 

Calmly, he says, “She’s just gonna sleep, Steve.” 

“Come on, Buck.” 

"Maybe we should have this discussion elsewhere," Sam suggests, nodding at the unconscious kid. “How ‘bout we take a walk and get you guys caught up on the results of the testing? Then we can talk about next steps." 

Van Dyne quietly offers, “I can stay with Natasha while you talk.” She holds out the scanner to Sam, who takes it with a nod of thanks. 

Reluctantly, Steve stands. He’s not giving up, Bucky knows, just conceding the battle and plotting for the next confrontation. The old man gently tucks Romanoff’s hand underneath the blankets and pats her blanket-covered shoulder. For a moment, it looks like he might lean over to kiss the kid on her forehead, but he restrains himself. Collecting his jacket and carefully draping it over his arm, he gestures for Sam to lead the way. 

They file out into the office: Sam, then Steve, with Bucky taking up the rear, quietly closing the door behind them. He notes that someone took the time to clean up. Romanoff’s gear is gone, and it looks like the desk has been wiped down. 

Turning toward Steve with a frown, Sam asks, “So you’re leaving?” 

“I’m taking Steve to the apartment in the city to get some sleep and drop off his stuff from the other timeline,” Bucky explains. 

Sam nods, but there’s some uncertainty in his dark eyes as he asks, “You’re coming back, right?” 

“Tomorrow,” Steve answers firmly. “Sam, while I’m gone-” 

“I’ll watch out for Nat personally,” the younger man assures him. “You don’t have to worry.” 

Steve claps a hand on his arm and gratefully says, “Thank you, Sam. Miss van Dyne is a lovely young woman, but someone Natasha knows should be with her when she wakes up again.” 

“Great point. Let’s go talk to the eggheads and get this over with so Sam can get back to her,” Bucky suggests. 

*** 

“...and the DNA is a match as well,” Banner concludes, gesturing at the test results he’s displayed on the screens. It's messy, but the computer setup they've assembled in the cafeteria is pretty impressive. It's doubled in size since that morning. “As far as we can tell, she really is Nat.” 

Steve nods like this was a foregone conclusion. He leans toward the screen, studying the results as if memorizing them. "That's good news," he says. "And she's healthy?" 

"Yes," Janet van Dyne replies, firm and reassuring. "Every test we've run tells us that she's a normal, healthy, teenage girl." 

All of that sounds good, but there’s a hesitation in the scientists, as if they’re leading up to something. From the periphery of the gathering, where he can keep an eye on everyone, Bucky glances at Sam, who leans against one of the tables with his arms crossed. He doesn't seem surprised, but his expression is strangely closed. Warily, Bucky asks, "So what's the catch?" 

“The 'catch' is that we have to throw causality out the window to make the timeline work,” Dr. Pym says crankily. He’s sitting because of his leg, but he keeps his cane in hand as if he’ll rise and start pacing the cable-covered floor at any moment. He taps his cane against the side of his shoe, glaring down at the rubber stopper on the end as if it’s personally offended him. "It can’t be a coincidence, but it doesn’t make any sense." 

"We haven’t got all of the details worked out yet," Janet temporizes, laying a quelling hand on her husband’s shoulder. "We're missing something. It would have been nice to confirm some details with Miss Romanoff. The data from the suit has been very informative, but we have more questions than answers." 

"What kind of questions?" Bucky asks. 

“I should start at the beginning,” Banner says. "See, you can't change the past." Focusing on Steve, he explains, "When you went back to 1947, you made some changes to the course of history. Maybe big ones, maybe little ones, but nothing you did could alter the past we know. Everything that happened in this timeline still happened." 

"Right," Steve agrees. "We can only create branch realities when we go to the past." 

"Something that should be avoided at all costs," Pym stresses. 

"So what's the problem?" Bucky asks. "Is the kid from a branch reality?" 

"No," Banner replies, shaking his head. "The origin signature from the suit matches our jumping off point. Actually, everything matches up with what we'd expect to see until a little while after Natasha... died." He swallows before continuing, "The problem is that the timing of her return to existence seems to coincide with Thanos destroying the Infinity Stones in 2018.” 

Steve perks up. “So you think that's what brought her back? The stone getting destroyed?" 

"That would make sense," Bucky says. "Romanoff said everything fell apart before she ended up alive and in the water." 

“Except that it’s really strange that the stones were destroyed at that exact moment in the timeline Natasha died in,” Banner explains tiredly. Gesturing to illustrate his words, he goes on, “Remember, Nat and Clint went to 2014 _with_ Rhodey and Nebula. The Thanos from that branch timeline came here, to 2023, and was killed by Tony. That means that in the branch Natasha _should_ have been in, Thanos had disappeared from history along with his army and most of his highest-ranking followers in 2014. So who collected and destroyed the stones in that other 2018? Even if someone else took Thanos’ place, why would the timeline match ours so precisely?” 

Bucky is pretty sure that the sudden pain in his head is his brain twisting into a pretzel. 

“Cap, you got a chance to talk to her a bit, you said,” Sam ventures, pushing away from the table and turning to face Steve. “Did Nat say _anything_ about what happened?” 

“Not much,” he admits. “She was in heaven, or something like it. A garden where there was no pain or suffering. She said it was peaceful. Then, like Bucky said, she told us it fell apart and she ended up in the water.” 

“She did say she ‘Told them he was gonna destroy it’,” Bucky adds thoughtfully. “I think we both assumed she meant Thanos, but maybe we were wrong.” 

Janet hums thoughtfully, sharing a look with her husband. “We really need to talk to that girl,” she muses. 

“Unfortunately, that’ll have to wait until morning,” Banner sighs. “And as much as I want answers, if sleep is going to help Nat get better faster, I can live with that.” 

“Of course,” Janet agrees immediately. She checks her watch with tired green eyes and observes, “It’s after ten. We could probably all use some sleep. It’s been a long day, and there’s not much we can do for the next few hours.” 

“I should start letting everyone else know,” Sam says. “Send out some texts… We need to bring Barton in, at least. I checked - the last time Natasha had a next of kin on record, it was him. And if anyone can conclusively identify her, it’s Hawkeye. No offense, Cap, but it’s been a while since you last saw her.” 

“It’s fine,” Steve assures him. “Clint should be here. Natasha asked for him.” 

“Unprompted,” Bucky adds pointedly. 

Both Sam and Banner react with relief, understanding the significance of that information immediately. Sounding a lot more confident, Sam nods and says, “I’ll call Rhodes - he should be able to get a transport and pick up Barton first thing in the morning. This is news he should get in person. Besides, I don’t want to wake his family up in the middle of the night.” 

*** 

_Clint_

Clint is lost. Angry, thunderous clouds press down on the air above him, fitfully lit by a lurid red eclipse. He’s being watched, judged, found wanting. He kneels in water as warm as blood. It fills his boots and sucks at his clothes. He can feel rough stone under his submerged hands and knees, but when he looks down through the water all he can see is the endless distance to the base of the cliff and Nat falling away from him. He reaches, but his hands meet stone under the water. He opens his mouth to scream, but he can't make a sound. All he can do is watch as she falls and falls and falls. 

The mug clacking down on the table in front of him startles him awake. ‘World’s Mightiest Dad!’ it reads, the neatly printed words surrounded by a rainbow of shakily-drawn arrows. Clint reels back, the room lurching around him sickeningly until he can get his bearings. He's sitting at his kitchen table, at the farm, and Laura is sitting across from him. She looks tired and sad, with dark circles under her eyes and new lines on her face. There's nothing but darkness outside the windows. He can’t remember how he got to the table, where he was before… 

No, he was checking the kids. They were safe, alive. 

Laura’s alive. 

Nat isn’t. 

“It's getting worse,” Laura says. His gaze drifts to her mouth, but she’s still talking and the movement of her lips is too distracting for him to understand what she's saying. He looks at her bathrobe instead, faded purple and fuzzy over a blue nightgown, and forces himself to focus on her voice. “-can't go on like this. You need to sleep.” 

Sleep? He doesn't even want to blink. But she’s right, he knows that. He should have done something before he worried her by zoning out in a haze of stress and sleep debt. Shame and fear war in his gut as he wonders if his wife found him standing in the dark, staring blankly into space. He’s supposed to be her partner, not a burden. 

His fingers wrap around the warm mug and he raises it to drink. He tries not to screw his face up at the taste of herbal tea. It was a rough day - Rogers never called and the pounding headache that started midmorning just added to the stress of waiting. He’d avoided Laura and the kids, keeping them in sight but at a distance, and felt shitty about it. Even now, with the pain finally fading, his head feels cottony and he’s so drained that he can barely keep his burning eyes open. Realizing that Laura’s watching him with growing worry as she waits for a response, he reluctantly sighs and agrees, “Yeah.” 

She takes a deep breath, like she thought he’d fight her over it. “Good,” she says. “I know you don't like to rely on medication, but there are some over the counter things we can try...” 

Clint isn’t listening anymore. There’s something moving under the dark liquid in his mug. It’s almost lost in the reflection of the sky, but he can see… something falling… 

Someone... 

He hurls the cup away violently and it smashes against the fridge, spraying tea and colorful pottery shards across the cabinets and floor. Laura is staring at him in wide-eyed shock, half-risen from the table. There are footsteps thumping above his head - he woke the kids. He's angry, scared, out of control, and his heartbeat is a jackhammer in his throat. A sob bursts out of him and he doesn’t even know where it’s coming from. 

He’s never felt so alone. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I have it planned out, every chapter of this story will cover the events of one day (only the first few will be sequential, since a lot happens in a short time). Unfortunately (or fortunately - depending on personal tastes) the next few chapters will be pretty long due to having quite a few characters who need to have their say. 
> 
> Next chapter: Clint gets the news, no one knows what to make of Natasha, and Bruce takes a trip.


	3. Oblation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which loss and recovery are complicated

_Saturday, 11/18/2023-_ _Clint_

It’s a little past five AM, and Clint’s staring blindly up at the darkness of his bedroom ceiling. Somehow, he actually slept for four straight hours. He feels… clearer, he supposes. Still tired, but the fog’s not so thick. He'd be thrilled, except that now he gets to remember with crystal clarity how he scared the shit out of his wife and kids at half past midnight. Laura was a champ about it, of course - she got the kids settled back down while he was cleaning up the spilled tea and shattered mug. He'd have slept on the couch, after, but she led him upstairs without a word, stopping at each room before coaxing him into bed as well. That's what they've come to - his wife taking care of everyone while he has meltdowns. 

Shame makes him squeeze his eyes shut against the red glow of the numbers on the clock. This time he doesn't see the empty field behind the house in Missouri, the abandoned picnic supplies. He doesn’t see Nat's last seconds slipping away. He sees nothing at all. Clint feels a rush of relief, followed immediately by a wave of guilt that just leaves him empty and tired. God, his head’s a mess.

He can’t remember when he last got in a solid block of sleep. Four hours without dreams. He should sleep more. For the sake of his family, he should sleep. It’s only been four hours, they’re fine. His skin crawls and he curses under his breath as his eyes snap open. He's already pushing back the covers.

He’s not going to be able to get back to sleep. Laura doesn’t wake as he gets up - a small victory, but he’ll take it. Honestly, as tired as she looks, he could probably sing show tunes and not wake her. _And whose fault is that_? 

She deserves better.

Clint dresses in the dark. Jeans, t-shirt, flannel. It’s supposed to be cold later. In stocking feet, he moves like a ghost through the house, pausing at each bedroom door for just a moment. Cooper’s blankets are pulled over his head, but a teenage foot is poking out from under the covers and the lump in the middle of the bed moves with his soft snoring. Lila’s on her side, her stuffed bunny down off the shelf and squeezed tightly to her chest. Just next door, Nate’s doing the same with his teddy bear. Hopefully they’ll sleep in and make up for last night.

He goes downstairs, but he doesn’t want to lurk in the kitchen or turn on the TV. Pulling on his work boots and slipping out the front door, he heads to the barn. It’s colder than he expected - the chill cuts through him, but he doesn’t go back in for a jacket. It’ll be fine for an hour or two, as long as he stays out of the wind. 

The workshop in the barn is full of half-finished projects and scattered tools, a cluttered and homey mess except for the tarp-covered workbench in the corner. The moment Clint flicks the switch and fills the space with lambent yellow light from the old bulb, tension eases in his back. He kills an hour working on a replacement leg for one of the chairs on the porch. Can’t use power tools - the sound carries - but he’s got everything he needs to get by without. The labor is meditative, and he keeps an eye on the house while he works. When his bedroom window brightens with the low light of the lamp on Laura’s bedside table, he puts down his tools and heads back to the house.

It’s a little after six when Clint shucks his muddy boots outside the door and enters silently. He heads to the kitchen, flipping on the light and scanning the floor intently for any sign of pottery shards he may have missed. There’s none. Nodding, he gets the coffee going while listening to the comforting creaks of his wife moving around upstairs. She doesn’t say anything when she comes downstairs, but she studies his face carefully. He tries to smile, to reassure her, only managing a grimace.

Despite his failure, the tension around Laura’s tired eyes eases a bit and she gives him a small smile. Reaching up to cup his stubbled jaw, she coaxes him down for her morning kiss. They’re both too tired for passion, but there’s comfort in the softness and warmth of her mouth. It’s a benediction he doesn't deserve. Clint represses a shiver and doesn’t pull away - he lets Laura be the one to break off with another sad smile.

She goes for the coffee and he heads to the breadbox to make toast. There’s some sliced fruit in the fridge, too. That should tide them over. The kids won’t wake until after sunrise, and the sky is only just lightening. With what happened the night before, they may even sleep in. Maybe he should make pancakes, as an apology and to get their minds off of everything. He and Laura move silently around each other as he checks to make sure they have enough eggs - yes, but they’re going to need to run into town and do some shopping - and chocolate chips. He starts setting out ingredients on the counter, and Laura wordlessly retrieves a large mixing bowl from the cabinet.

Clint tenses when he hears the propulsion system of the jet. Striding to the front door, he makes it to the porch just in time to watch the Stark-modified quinjet touch down at the edge of the woods. 

“Clint?” Laura is in the doorway, her voice low and apprehensive.

“Friendlies, I think,” Clint says.

As if in confirmation, the War Machine armor emerges from the aircraft, lifting off when it’s clear of the ramp. The pilot skims low over the field as he flies slowly toward the house. 

“I’ll wait inside,” Laura says. The door closes behind her with a soft click.

Clint steps to the edge of the porch as the suit lands a couple of yards from the base of the steps. The helmet folds away to reveal a shaken Jim Rhodes, who says, “Barton. Sam sent me-”

“No.” He knew it - something went wrong with Rogers' trip to return the stones and now the Avengers have to go save him. And of course they come to Clint, as if he doesn't have four very good reasons not to risk his life. As if he would just throw away the second chance Nat gave him. _Or_ , an insidious voice in the back of his head whispers, _this is where the happy fantasy starts to fall apart_.

“Clint,” Rhodey says urgently, “listen-”

“You should have called and saved yourself the trip,” Clint interrupts, descending the steps. “I’m out, Rhodes. There’s no mission more important than my family.” Not to mention that he’s been told in no uncertain terms that he's never going to be an Avenger again and he’d better keep his vigilante ass out of trouble. By Rhodes, explicitly.

“I get that, I do,” the guy insists, but obviously he doesn’t because he keeps talking. “Something happened when they sent Rogers to put the stones back where they came from. Just… just take a look, okay?” He holds out his phone and Clint glances at the screen as he reaches the ground, a final refusal ready to spill from his lips. He chokes on the words.

It’s a photo of a little girl in a hospital bed. A sleeping little girl with long, red hair who looks so damn peaceful and not at all broken. Seeing her feels like getting stabbed in the heart. No, it's worse. A sound bubbles in his chest, but it’s nothing that’s meant to come out of a human and he chokes it back so he doesn’t wake the kids. He shakes his head, uncomprehending. “It’s _not_ -” _Natasha_. It's not real. _She's_ not real. He knew it was a lie, and this is the proof.

“The DNA's a match,” Rhodey says gently. “But no one knows Natasha Romanoff better than you. They sent me to get you.”

“I can’t-”

“You’re her next of kin,” Rhodey says, driving the knife deeper and twisting it. “Still. Did you know that? I didn’t." There's no love lost between them - Rhodey made it clear when they were preparing for the time heist how he feels about Clint and the things he's done in the last five years - but right now his expression is full of pity. "Look, Barton-”

“Okay, yeah,” Clint says, numb. “I gotta get- Give me a minute, okay?” He stumbles up the steps and into the house, quiet only out of long practice. He’s still got a go bag packed in the upstairs closet. _Keep it together_. Grab the bag, check the kids, get shoes...

Laura is standing in the middle of the kitchen with her coffee mug wrapped in both hands. She frowns and steps hastily to the side to put the mug down on the counter as he changes directions and bears down on her. “Clint-”

He wraps his arms around his wife, trying desperately to convince himself that she’s real, that this is happening. Laura is warm and solid and he buries his face in her neck, catching a soothing hint of her lavender body wash. Her arms come up around his ribs, hands pulling at the back of his shirt. It _feels_ real.

“They said you had to stay out of sight,” she says into his shoulder, worried and tense and uneasy. “That you couldn’t be back in the field again after-”

“It’s not a mission,” he chokes out. 

“Can you tell me what it is they want?”

The possibility that Rhodes has dangled in front of him feels like something out of a dream, and he has the sudden, irrational certainty that if he says the words out loud, he’ll wake up back in the real world and it won’t be true. “I can’t,” he says. “It might not be- They aren’t sure.” He releases her slowly and steps back. Jesus, he’s shaking. He takes a deep breath as he tries to smooth out his features and will away the burning in his eyes. Apologetic but unyielding, he tells her, “I have to take this one, Laur.”

She searches his face for the answers he won’t give. There’s only one woman who could read him as easily as Nat could, and her eyes widen with hope and disbelief. “Clint,” Laura says shakily, “Clint, is it-”

“Don’t,” he pleads, cutting her off. He can’t hear her ask when he doesn’t have an answer. “I don’t know, I just… I don’t know.” 

She nods and swallows, her eyes nearly glowing with a kind of faith he wishes he could still feel. 

All Clint can think is _this can’t be real_ and _what will I have to pay_? He leans in and kisses his wife goodbye. “I have to go,” he says, “I’ll call, okay?”

***

The flight to New York takes an eternal hour and a half. After Rhodes admits that Sam barely told him anything about the girl, they don’t talk. Stark’s AI is piloting the plane as they fly toward the rising sun, filling the cabin with harsh bars of light cut by the sharp silhouettes of the pilot’s and copilot’s chairs. They sit on opposite sides of the plane, avoiding each other’s eyes. Rhodes has a pensive expression on his face as he stares into space. The War Machine armor looms beside him, casting him in shadow. Clint keeps his eyes on the battered duffel bag between his boots, only looking up when the light shifts to confirm their orientation. 

His heart rate starts to pick up when they begin to descend. Time is ticking down. A few weeks ago, nine years in the past, he was with Natasha, descending toward the surface of an alien world in a spaceship. They thought they were prepared to do whatever it took to get the Soul Stone, but they had no idea what they were walking into.

Clint isn’t ready, but as the jet settles back to Earth, he’s rising and shouldering his bag. Rhodes is back in his suit. He hits the release for the ramp as soon as it lights up and they’re walking down onto a well-kept parking lot with unbroken pavement and clean, bright lines.

The building is impressive, Clint will give it that. It’s large and airy, sleek and modern. Except for the sprawling size, glass-walled central atrium, and lack of actual logs, it vaguely reminds him of a log cabin. The sign outside still says ‘Stark Youth Home’, but Clint has heard enough about recent events to know that the orphans are all gone. Everyone inside should be an Avenger or one of their allies.

They move quickly to the entrance, Rhodes staying slightly ahead with his robot legs. As soon as they get through the inner doors, Bruce’s voice calls, “Clint!” He’s at the back of the room, lumbering toward them.

“I’ll go ahead,” Rhodes says, stepping down out of his armor. Turning to address the exoskeleton, he orders, "Go upstairs and wait in my room." He waves a distracted greeting at Banner and heads down the corridor on the left side of the two-story lobby as his suit obediently clomps up the stairs.

Reluctantly, Clint stays where he is, watching Rhodes go. “Hey, Doc,” he greets Bruce, tossing his duffel bag onto a leather chair. There’s nothing he needs right away, and he can come back for it later. Wiping his palms on his jeans, he asks, “No offense, but can we walk and talk?” 

“Hi,” Bruce says. “Just give me a minute and I’ll let you go. Sam is with Nat.” He approaches slowly, and the archer takes in the rumpled clothes and dishevelled hair, the beginning of dark green bags under his eyes. The scientist rubs at his eyes with his giant hand before putting his glasses on and squinting down at Clint. “Sorry, I know you want to see her right away, but I just want to bring you up to speed on the situation.”

“Rhodes already showed me a picture,” Clint objects. The girl in the photo was in a hospital bed, but there was no IV, no bandages, no blood or bruises. She looked okay. Taking in Bruce’s serious expression, he can’t help but remember watching Natasha hit the ground. Even from hundreds of feet away, he’d seen the devastation ripple through her body. Most of her larger bones shattered instantly - legs, arms, pelvis. Her skull cracked like an egg, and even though he couldn’t hear the impact over the wind, the sound haunts his dreams. Jittery, he asks, “Is she hurt?” 

“She’s not injured,” Bruce assures him, his thick features softening into sympathy. “Dr. Strange took a look at her, we’ve scanned her, and we’ve done every test we can think of. Natasha’s perfectly healthy. She’s just… young. We don’t know why yet, but we’re working on it.” 

Confused, Clint asks, “Wait, what did Steve say about it? Didn’t he get her back by returning the stone?” 

A strange expression flits across Bruce’s face. “No, he… Steve wasn’t on Vormir when it happened. Her suit homed in on the active platform we used for his trip to return the stones, but that seems to be a coincidence...” Looking almost embarrassed, he adds, “We haven’t really gotten the chance to talk to Nat. Dr. Strange gave her something to help her sleep through the night.”

“She let him drug her?” There’s no way Nat would do that. Clint’s blood turns to ice water. “Bruce, does she remember anything? She looks like a kid, is she-?”

“Oh, no,” Bruce interrupts, shaking his head. “No, Clint. Natasha was awake when she arrived yesterday, and she recognized us - Sam and Steve and I. She wasn't in great shape and she did pass out, but Strange was able to fix what was wrong. Steve talked to her a bit more in the middle of the night, and she was disoriented by the drugs but she’s not- I mean we haven’t had a chance to do cognitive tests but she seemed like herself. Steve and Bucky said she asked for you, unprompted.”

 _She asked for him_. Grief hits him like a freight train and he’s not sure whether he wants to scream or cry or both. 

Bruce’s heavy hand comes down gently on his shoulder, offering support. “Listen,” he says kindly, “go and see her. Talk to her if she's awake. You know Nat better than anyone, Clint. If she’s different, you’ll know.”

Sucking in a steadying breath, Clint nods. He has to wipe moisture from his eyes, but it’s not like the Doc hasn’t seen him cry before. “Yeah, okay.”

“Okay. We're almost done going over the data in the cafeteria, just down that way.” Bruce gestures toward the corridor he came from, the one in the back right corner of the lobby. “If Nat’s up to it, it would be great to get her take on what happened.”

“Right.” Finding out what happened would be good. “I’ll see what I can do.”

***

_Rhodey_

The last few hours have been a roller-coaster for Jim Rhodes. From Sam’s late-night call to this moment, striding into the infirmary at the makeshift new Avengers HQ, he’s been either rushing or waiting. 

_The display on Jim’s cell phone says that it’s 10:30 PM, and the caller ID drives all traces of sleep from his mind. Sam knows he’s in DC; he wouldn’t call so late if there wasn’t trouble. He connects the call and brings the phone to his ear. “Please tell me it’s not aliens,” he grumbles as he flips on the bedside light and squints at the sudden illumination._

_“It’s not aliens,” Sam says, sounding tired. “I need to ask a favor.”_

_“Avengers favor?” In the corner of the room, his harness clicks twice before it powers on and begins to move toward him._

_Sam hesitates before saying, “More like a family favor. Natasha’s back.”_

Just like that, he’d been hooked. Sam could have asked him for almost anything as he scrambled to get dressed and into his harness. Turns out all he wanted was one of Tony's- no, Pepper's jets, and backup from War Machine in case things went south. Oh, and collecting Barton. Fortunately, Happy gave him clearance for the aircraft without any questions, telling him to keep it for as long as he needs.

As for the rest of the crazy stuff Sam had to tell him… well, all of that can wait. There’s only one closed door, and every other room attached to the nurse’s office is unoccupied. Jim opens the door and steps into the room. His eyes are drawn immediately to the occupant of the hospital bed, all the breath rushing out of his lungs. It’s true - _Nat’s alive_. She’s tucked in snugly, laying on her back with the covers up to her chin, her red hair spread out on the pillow like a halo. Relief makes him weak for a moment, the harness whirring as it adjusts automatically and prevents him from even swaying. _Nat’s alive!_

Sam's slouching in a chair by her bedside, ear-buds in and a tablet in his hands. It doesn’t look like he’s slept, and he definitely hasn’t shaved that morning. He looks up as Jim enters and immediately sits up. Setting the tablet on the wheeled bedside table, he pulls out the buds and quietly says, “Hey, Rhodey.”

“Sam.” Stepping up to the end of the bed on legs that would shake if they weren’t computer-controlled, Jim stares at the sleeping girl. He’d seen a photo, of course, but in person... She’s so _young_ ; he’s never spent much time around teenagers, but she looks even younger than Parker. “Wow,” he breathes. “Just… wow.”

“Tell me about it,” Sam says in a low voice, rising from his chair and moving to stand beside him. He glances toward the open, empty door and frowns. "Did Barton come?"

Barton. His relief twists into dread. “Yeah, I got him,” he confirms grimly, knowing that his tone was a little too harsh when Sam raises an eyebrow at him. Jim can only grimace in response. He wasn’t thrilled about bringing the guy in before, but agreed because Nat would want him there and Sam said that Barton was listed as her next of kin. Now, involving the ex-vigilante in any way seems like a terrible idea. If Nat’s changed this much on the outside, what kind of state is her head in? Not that he thinks Barton will hurt her physically, but _emotionally_... "Sorry. Bruce wanted to talk to him."

“Right.” Nodding slowly, Sam uneasily says, "Hey, if I'd known there was bad blood between you and Barton…"

"There's not," he insists, crossing his arms over his chest. "Hadn't seen the guy in years until everything went down a few weeks ago." Barton had been a ghost, but the former Avenger left behind plenty of gory crime scenes and Jim had to wade through too many of them. Five years of massacres, of burning warehouses full of bloody, dismembered bodies. Five years of watching Nat take every new report like a bullet to the gut.

Wilson frowns, puzzled. Uncertainly, he ventures, "I thought you were working pretty closely with Nat the last few years?"

"I was." Since he’d rather talk about his mysteriously resurrected friend’s condition than Barton’s failings, Jim asks, "She's okay?"

"Yeah, she’s fine. Just…" Sam gestures at the girl meaningfully.

"Any idea why she's a kid?"

“The geniuses are still trying to figure that out,” Sam replies, shrugging. “They’re saying maybe exposure to quantum whatever.”

That makes a kind of sense. Jim had heard about how Lang got turned into a baby briefly while Bruce was experimenting with time travel. Maybe Nat’s suit was damaged when she died. They fixed Lang, so maybe they can fix her, too. Of course, getting her body back to normal won’t help if she’s got the mind of a kid, so he asks, “But she’s still our Natasha? She remembers everything?”

Sam’s brow is furrowed, his expression considering. “She knew my name, nearly cried when she saw me,” he says slowly. “Knew Steve and was surprised he got old. Steve said she asked for Barton and even remembers being dead and in some kinda heaven." Everything he’s saying seems pretty positive, but it’s clear that something is troubling him.

"Damn," Jim murmurs, shaking his head. He shifts his weight as he turns back toward Nat, once again studying her soft, adolescent features. "It's just hard to believe, looking at her.”

Sam nods, lips pursed as he regards the girl pensively. A comfortable silence falls between them, and Jim allows himself to get lost in his own thoughts. It’s good to have Natasha back, no matter what other complications get thrown in their way. After how hard she worked to make it happen, she should get to see the people she ransomed her life for and live in the world she saved. His heart pangs as he thinks of Tony, who’s still gone. He deserved better, too. Both died due to the Infinity Stones, so maybe, once they figure out how Natasha came back... but that’s wishful thinking. It’s enough of a miracle to have just one of them returned from the dead.

Suddenly Natasha’s awake, her green eyes opening without warning. Fully alert and sounding puzzled, she curiously asks, “Why? What’s wrong with me?” 

Jim’s stunned, and he can see that Sam is just as caught off guard as he is. Thoughts sleet through his head as he gathers himself. How long has she been awake? What does she mean, asking what’s wrong with her? Worried, he carefully keeps his voice calm and soothing as he reassures her, “Nat, you’re okay. Nothing’s wrong with you.” He bites back a wince as he immediately realizes that talking to her like she’s on a ledge might not be the best approach.

Unconvinced, the girl warily observes, “You say that, but you’re not seeing what you expect when you look at me.” Shoving the blankets out of her way and sitting up, she gives Sam a slightly suspicious look. “And you were surprised that I know you, which makes no sense.” 

Seeing the younger Nat in motion is something else - her expressions, tone of voice, and inflections are in every aspect _exactly_ as he remembers. Instead of making the changes less noticeable, the things that haven’t changed throw every detail of her transformation into stark relief. The whole effect is just _weird_.

Natasha reaches up and touches her own face carefully, fingertips tracing her adolescent features as she searches for a clue that she clearly doesn’t find. Uncertainly, she ventures, “I don’t feel different… but I look different?” 

From the doorway, Barton tiredly says, "You look younger. A _lot_ younger.” He seems much less happy to see his best friend than he should.

Nat’s eyes go wide at the sight of her old partner and her hands drop to the mattress beside her as if she’s going to push her way out of the bed. Immediately distraught, she urgently begins, "Clint, I-"

"Stop," he commands hoarsely, cutting her off. Her mouth snaps shut, leaving her looking like a scolded child. Barton steps forward and clears the doorway as he studies the girl with a haunted expression. She returns his inspection anxiously. 

“Ah,” Sam says quietly, touching Jim lightly on the arm. “Come on, man - let me show you the cafeteria.” 

“Yeah, sure,” he mutters. He hates doing it, but it’s pretty obvious that as far as those two are concerned, they might as well be alone in the room. Fair enough - considering how they parted, there’s no doubt that they’ve got a lot to sort out. He and Sam furtively skirt the archer and leave, giving the pair some privacy.

As they head out of the office and down the hall, Sam murmurs, "Well, that was intense."

That’s what worries him, but Jim reminds himself that Barton isn’t a _physical_ threat to Nat. Outside of mind control, he’s never been that. Eager to change the subject, he asks, “So where's Cap? You already ship him off to a senior center?"

***

_Clint_

The girl is perfect. Natasha’s features are unmistakable, despite being blurred and softened by adolescence. Even in the dim light, he can see that her sleep-mussed hair is eye-catching red and her eyes are the right color. Every mole and freckle is right where it should be. It could be a trick, though - a clone, an illusion, some kind of alien doppelganger. He knows not to trust outside appearances - he learned that lesson early in life, but Nat gave him a master course while they were partners at SHIELD. He’s not really interested in the packaging anyway. 

Clint watches her eyes, the way she reacts when she recognizes him - happy, reassured, remorseful - and how she immediately starts studying him in return. He can see her cataloguing information, reading him like a book. He can see _Nat_ looking back at him, and the relief that wells up in his heart nearly breaks him. _Natasha_. She’s alive, and she’s _whole_. “Natasha,” he says raggedly, struggling to force the words out. “Nat, what the _hell_?” 

Before she can respond, Clint’s crossing the room to drop down beside her on the bed and haul her close. He just needs to hold her for a moment, to convince himself she's real. Nat's always been so damn tiny, but now it feels like holding one of his kids. She’s small and soft, and he _knows_ that Nat has been the human equivalent of a razor blade hidden in cotton candy since she really was a child, but she’s alive and she’s letting him hold her and he can’t let her go yet. He presses his face into the top of her head, feeling her tangled hair shift against his cheek. God, she even smells the same. Clint shakes as he breathes out. He refuses to cry, but his throat aches with unshed tears as he chokes, "Don't ever do that to me again."

"I had to," Nat protests, her voice higher and clearer but still _hers_. He feels her hands curl into the fabric of his shirt. Instead of trying to get free, she presses closer, snuggling into his embrace. Either she missed him as much as he missed her, or she can tell just how fucked up he is, how much he needs this right now. While he attempts to get himself under control, breathing into her hair, she gently insists, "Clint, you know I had to."

White-hot anger flares and he can only manage an animal noise of denial as an answer. His arms tighten around her body involuntarily, an echo of his desperation to cling to her in those last moments on Vormir. He barely restrains himself from hurting her, feeling her body start to give just before he stops himself. She didn’t _have to_ do anything - it always should have been him. Through clenched teeth, he snarls, "I watched you die, Nat. Watched your head crack on the stone and the life go out of you." His hand finds the back of her head, tangling in her hair and discovering no trace of any wound, new or old. As quickly as it came, the anger sinks under a wave of mingled relief and regret. “You said it was okay and then you-”

"It _was_. It was okay," Natasha says adamantly. "It _worked_. Laura and the kids are alive, right?" She pauses, probably waiting for an answer, but he’s too choked up to speak. Yeah, he got Laura and the kids back, but it hasn’t been okay. He doesn’t know if it ever can be, even now, with Nat miraculously alive and safe in his arms. It feels like a pit is about to open up under him. Softly, Nat continues, "And I’m back, too, and nothing really bad happened to me. No harm, no foul.” 

_Nothing bad_?! He would scream, but he can barely breathe. If he closes his eyes, he can see the endless loop that plagues his nightmares. The moment she wrenched herself free of his grip, her eyes wide with fear but also full of resolve and a horrible sort of acceptance. She never looked away from him as she fell, and he couldn’t do anything for her but watch until the end, when his partner, his friend, the one person left in his heart, died in one brutal instant. 

Natasha seems to realize what’s going through his head. Real quiet, she murmurs, “I'm sorry you had to watch, but it was too fast to hurt. I didn't suffer, I promise, and after… It was peaceful."

He can’t even put words to the wave of emotion that swamps him then. All he knows is that it hurts, and in the aftermath he’s empty of everything but pathetic gratitude that Natasha didn’t experience pain during her violent death. He sags, dragging in a breath. "Good," he mumbles weakly. "That's good." Deliberately, he loosens his grip on Nat and sits back so he can get another look at her. Jesus, she’s… she’s so _cute_ , and about the same age as Cooper. It’s downright surreal to see Nat’s worried eyes looking up at him from a young girl’s face. Her hair’s even more of a mess than when he arrived, and he impulsively tries to smooth the tangled strands for a moment before giving it up as a lost cause. Trying to give her a stern look, he says, "I'm still really mad at you, kiddo."

Pouting adorably, Natasha retorts, "You do not call me 'kiddo'." 

Oh, she’s trying to glare at him, but with that face... It’s not really funny, but the whole situation is absurd on so many levels that a harsh laugh bursts out of him. Wryly, he suggests, "You may want to look in a mirror, sweetheart." Levering himself up onto his feet, he offers her a hand. “Come on, I want to see your face when you get a look at yourself.” 

Looking wary, she takes his hand and slides from the bed with her usual grace, shivering slightly when her bare feet meet the wooden floor. She’s shorter than her adult height by at least a couple of inches. Slimmer, too, though it’s hard to tell in the shapeless hospital gown. Her hand is small and soft in his as he leads her to the bathroom. Making sure that she’s squared up across from the mirror, Clint keeps his eyes on Nat as he reaches in to flip the light switch. 

Her green eyes go wide with shock. “But I don’t feel different,” she whispers. After a long moment of staring bewildered at her reflection, she grabs the neckline of the gown and pulls the loose garment out in front of her so she can look inside. 

Clint snorts, amused despite himself, but his humor fades as he realizes that she’s gone pale. She’s not just surprised, she’s scared. Worried, he says, “Natasha-” 

Nat shakes her head, cutting him off. She visibly pulls herself together, controlling her breathing and stepping closer to the mirror. Her gaze has turned assessing as she studies her changed features. He wonders what she’s thinking, but keeps his mouth shut and lets her process. After a moment, her lips purse just slightly and she calmly announces, “It’s fine. I don't care what I look like." If it weren’t for the barest hint of a tremor in her voice, he might believe her.

“Yeah, I can see that,” Clint drawls. Watching her carefully, he asks, “But since it’s just us, Nat, be straight with me. Are you going to be okay?”

“I can make it work,” she says. Glancing back over her shoulder, she narrows her eyes and firmly adds, “That pet name thing still isn't happening, by the way.” 

The flip, warning tone is so reminiscent of some of their old banter that he chuckles rustily.

Natasha doesn’t quite smile. Deliberately casual, she asks, “Can you get me clothes? Real clothes, not hospital stuff.” 

It’s not an unreasonable request; she’s definitely going to need something to wear besides a baggy smock that ties in the back. Thing is, he’s pretty sure that she’s really asking for a moment to herself. Clint feels a sharp spark of alarm at the idea of letting Natasha out of his sight, but quashes it immediately. The room has no windows and he’ll be outside the only door. She’s not going anywhere and she’s not going to hurt herself. He’s being ridiculous. Forcing a nod, he replies, “Sure, no problem. I’ll be back in twenty.” 

Stepping out of the bathroom, he heads for the office to give her some privacy and quietly closes the door of the patient room behind him. There’s no one there. A quick check of the hall reveals that Rhodes and Wilson aren’t lurking in the vicinity, and he vaguely remembers one of them saying something about the cafeteria. That makes it less convenient to send someone else to find clothes for Nat. On the other hand, he’s alone for the first time since Rhodes showed him that picture and turned his idyllic waking nightmare of a life upside down. Walking back to the door to Nat’s room, Clint leans against the wall beside it and runs his hands over his face. 

Nat’s alive. Jesus Christ, if the world didn’t seem too good to be true before, it sure as hell does now. Part of him wants to sink to the floor and laugh or cry or both until the swirling mess of emotions inside of him is just _out_. The rest wants Laura and the kids, so he can have his whole family all together right now. He should have brought them with him; if he’d known that Nat would be real and herself, he would have. 

He’s so fucking tired.

He’s also wasting time. _Twenty minutes, Barton, get it together_. Pulling out his phone, he jabs and swipes his way to Wilson’s number. The call connects right away and Falcon’s soldier voice comes on the line, not even trying to sound casual. “Hawkeye. How’s it looking?”

“Good,” Clint says curtly. No point in wasting time on chit chat. “Nat needs clothes. Got anything around here that might fit her?”

“Huh. Give me a few, I’ll see what I can do.” 

“Thanks.” Skipping goodbyes, they simultaneously end the call. Clint lowers the phone from his ear, but hesitates before putting it away. His thumb scrolls through his contacts to his wife’s entry and hovers over the call button indecisively. He should call Laura and tell her he’s arrived safely. He should tell her about Nat. He should… 

The screen goes black, startling him. He hadn’t even noticed that he was lost in his thoughts, and can’t remember what was drifting through his mind while he was staring blankly at Laura’s name for two whole minutes. Apparently four hours of sleep wasn’t quite enough to clear his head. Shaking his head in disgust, he slides the phone back into his pocket. He’ll call later, when he knows more about what’s going on. 

The sound of the shower starting is muffled by the door, but it’s still easily noticeable in the otherwise silent office. He still has a few minutes, then. Plenty of time for Sam to get back to him. He makes an effort to collect himself, focusing on his breathing and listening for movement in the hall. It doesn’t take long at all for light footsteps to sound.

He’s expecting Sam, but a woman walks in, her dark hair pulled back in a ponytail. It takes him a beat to recognize her from Tony’s memorial service. She’s Scott’s girlfriend, and he’s pretty sure she was one of the people who showed up to fight against Thanos, though he could be wrong. It was a pretty chaotic battlefield. She’s carrying a bundle of fabric.

“Hi,” he says, pushing away from the wall. “Wasp, right?”

“Hawkeye,” she returns, smiling wanly as she tips her head in acknowledgement. “Hope van Dyne, actually, since we’re not suited up.” 

“Clint,” he replies.

Holding out the bundle with both hands, Hope nods toward the door and asks, “How is she?” Her expression is neutral, but there’s sympathy in her hazel eyes. 

“Okay so far. She’s taking a shower,” he says. He checks the clothes quickly and finds the basic necessities - underwear, jeans, t-shirt, socks - then pauses. Everything else probably belongs to the woman in front of him, since it’s not dissimilar from what she’s wearing, but there’s an oversized, blue hoodie that’s way too large for her. Though it’s an odd inclusion, he second-guesses himself before he asks. Nat might appreciate it. If nothing else, it’ll keep her warm in the somewhat cool building. Giving Hope a grateful nod, he says, “Thanks.”

“No problem,” she replies with another brief but honest smile. She glances at the door to Nat’s room, then nods at Clint and turns to leave. 

It hasn’t quite been twenty minutes, but there’s no point lingering just outside the door. Returning to the room, he drops the clothes on the end of the bed and sits in the convenient chair. Nat’s still in the shower. Slouching in his seat, he lets his mind go blank and drops into sniper breathing as he waits.

Natasha takes her time, lingering in the bathroom for several minutes after the shower stops. Eventually, she comes out wearing a towel. Her wet hair is loose around her face.

“Hey,” he says, gesturing toward the heap of clothing. “Clothes. Had to borrow stuff, no one thought to get anything for you yet.”

Nodding, Nat soundlessly crosses the room and checks to see what he’s acquired. Apparently satisfied with what’s been provided, she unceremoniously drops the towel. Taken aback, Clint freezes and stares without meaning to as the nude girl shivers and picks up the green panties, her pale, flawless skin breaking out in goosebumps on exposure to the air. His first thought is that she looks completely uninjured, which is great. Second, all her scars are missing - that causes a little tickle of curiosity in the back of his brain, but he doesn’t have the time to figure it out. Both of these thoughts are completely overshadowed by a third, which is, _What the actual fuck_?! 

Nat seems completely oblivious to his shock. She just starts getting dressed as if it’s in no way weird to get naked in front of him, while he tries to figure out what’s going on. 

Okay, so he’s seen quite a bit of her body before, back when they were partners working for SHIELD. Sometimes an inconveniently-placed injury had to be dealt with or they were in stupidly close quarters on a mission. Natasha always was pragmatic about her body, especially in mission mode. This isn’t that. He can’t figure out the _purpose_ of getting naked in front of him. She’s not being remotely seductive as she pulls on the borrowed underwear or tugs on the plain black tee. She’s not even watching to gauge his response. Is she proving something to herself? To him? Is it a test? But none of that rings true - it _seems_ like she just doesn’t care about him seeing her naked and doesn’t see why he would, either. That’s not normal, but what the hell does it mean?

By the time she’s pulled on the slightly baggy jeans, which she barely has the hips to safely wear, he’s got his confusion and worry under wraps and schooled his face back under control. Natasha finishes dressing, having to roll up both the sleeves of the hoodie and her pant legs. The jeans look okay, but the zip-up hoodie absolutely swamps her, falling to mid-thigh. The whole ensemble makes her look like she’s a twelve year old wearing her parents’ clothes. 

“Thanks,” Nat says casually as she pulls her hair free of the neck of the sweater and picks the discarded towel up from the floor. 

Clint rises from the chair, considering how to respond. As uncomfortable as he is with what just happened, he doesn’t want to ask about it when she’s looking at him with those strangely guileless eyes. No… just for now, he’s keeping this to himself. Instead, he falls back on the teasing banter they used to have between them back in the good old days, before their lives were full of monsters and magic and mysterious returns from the dead. Trying for a faintly amused expression, he pats her lightly on the head and replies, "Anything for you, babyface."

The look Natasha gives him is pure, unamused Black Widow. The warning is clear in her voice as she firmly says, “ _Clint_."

Getting a rise out of her shouldn’t give him warm and fuzzy feelings, but it’s absurdly reassuring to have Nat respond to his needling like she would have _before_. Since he’s got no interest in actually pushing her too far, he shrugs his capitulation, mostly lying when he replies, "Yeah, sorry." She settles back down right away, trusting him to stop. _Trusting him_. He doesn’t deserve it after what he allowed to happen to her, but it feels good anyway. Tipping his head toward the door, he says, “I’m guessing you’re ready to get out of here.”

“Yeah.” She returns the towel to the bar in the bathroom before focusing on him again. “We’ve got a rescue mission. I’ll fill you in while we track down Sam - he should know what’s going on.”

No one mentioned a mission, but he’s willing to follow her lead for the moment. Not that he has much choice - Clint knows there’s no point in getting in her way when she’s wearing that look. “He’s in the cafeteria,” he offers. “That’s where the brains have set up.” He nods toward the door and heads out, letting her fall in behind him. 

As they leave the room, Natasha glances around and comments, “This isn’t a hospital.”

He can kind of see how she might have thought that, seeing how well-supplied the place is. “It was an orphanage,” Clint explains as he leads the way out of the nurse’s office and into the hallway. “Used to be a rehab resort for the jet set, but I guess Stark and Potts bought it after the Decimation and opened it up to teenagers who lost their families. Now that everyone’s back, it emptied out pretty quick. The rehab people who got snapped back didn’t stick around, either, so Pepper offered it to Sam and the others who were gone for five years and had nowhere to go. We’re just up the road from the upstate base, actually.”

Curiously, she asks, “Why aren’t we at the base?”

Right - Bruce said that she hadn’t been awake much since she got back. “I guess they didn’t have the chance to tell you,” he says slowly, trying to think of how to explain everything that happened after they lost her. The battle with Thanos seems like it was an eternity ago. “It’s gone; got blown up when…” Oh shit. Clint stops in his tracks. He doesn’t want to have this conversation, but someone has to tell her that she wasn’t the only loss the Avengers suffered while undoing the Decimation. It should be him, and at least this way she can react without the others staring at her.

Coming to a halt beside him, Natasha says his name uncertainly.

He turns to face her square-on to break the bad news. He knows that she always liked Tony, as much of a dick as the guy could be. Somberly, he says, “You missed a lot, Nat. After Bruce snapped everyone back, the Thanos from 2014 came forward through the time portal and we had to fight him again. The base was totally destroyed. And Tony…” Better to just rip the bandaid off. “Nat, Tony’s dead.”

“Oh,” she says sadly. “I know.”

A little thrown by the muted reaction, Clint repeats, “You know?” 

“Steve told me.” Nat’s sorrow is clear, but she’s not as upset as he expected. “He said that Tony died saving everyone, but he didn’t say how.”

He supposes that it makes sense that Rogers didn’t go into the details while she was out of it on drugs. Deciding to keep it simple, Clint explains, “I didn’t see everything, but even with all our big guns on the field and reinforcements from a bunch of the people who got snapped, Thanos was still kicking our asses. Somehow, Tony got his hands on the stones and used them to destroy Thanos and his army. His body couldn’t take it.”

She considers this for a moment before asking, “Is that what happened to Bruce’s arm?”

Even now, the memory of the smell of burning Hulk flesh makes him screw up his face. “Yeah.”

Nodding, Natasha regretfully observes, “If Bruce was hurt that badly, Tony couldn’t have survived.”

“Right.” Still uncomfortable with her apparently easy acceptance of the news, he has to ask, “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m okay,” she assures him. “Are you?”

Looking down into Nat’s upturned face, Clint sees only gentle concern. “Yeah, of course.” It’s fine. No, it’s _fine_. She already told him there’s a mission in the works - he should have known not to expect her to get too emotional. A little gruffly, he says, “Come on, we should get to the cafeteria.”

***

_Sam_

“-and that’s about it,” Sam concludes, leaning back against the white-topped table. “Steve and Bucky will be back this evening. They’re giving Wanda a ride up, and she says she’ll stay a few days to help out. I haven’t told anyone else - figured we’d wait ‘til we see how Nat’s doing.” It still feels weird to have conversations like this in the middle of a cafeteria; he’d gotten used to conference rooms and command centers, and then to single-bed hotel rooms and the back of the quinjet. The extra space makes him feel exposed.

“I did mention it to Scott,” Hope admits apologetically. “He’s at home, but he says he can be here in a few hours if we need him.”

Rhodey nods. He’s been pretty quiet as they brought him up to speed on the events of the last day. Honestly, he had more to say about the kid-friendly snacks in the kitchen than about Steve’s decision or Nat’s return. “And I guess we can consider Strange on call - that’s a good team if we need one,” he observes, shifting on his feet as he stands in the middle of the aisle facing Bruce. “What’s the next step?”

“Well, first we make sure that Natasha’s okay mentally,” Sam says. “I think we start with figuring out how to get those people off Vormir.”

Surprised, Janet asks, “Just like that? No cognitive assessments, no attempt to confirm her identity before sending someone back in time on her word?”

He can see in her expression that she’s honestly baffled by his suggestion, so Sam just nods and explains, “Planning the mission _is_ the cognitive test. As for her identity, that’s what Barton’s here for. He’s not just her best friend of nearly two decades, he was also a SHIELD agent. If anyone can ID Natasha Romanoff, it’s Clint Barton.”

Rhodey and Bruce make sounds of agreement, one grudging and the other slightly sad.

Pym removes his glasses and pinches at the bridge of his nose. “Acting without real data isn’t the wisest course,” he points out wearily.

“We’re not acting,” Sam corrects. “Not yet. We’re planning.” They’re all tired; Sam was keeping watch all night, and he’s pretty sure the scientists only rested between tests. Rhodey looks like he didn’t sleep much either. At least everyone else seems to have found the time to shower and change clothes.

“A simple rescue mission really will be a good way to assess her mental state,” Rhodey agrees, warming to the idea.

“Simple!” Pym scoffs.

“That’ll go over better than an interrogation,” Bruce grants. He’s been looking out the wall of windows toward the lake, his brow furrowed in thought, but now he turns to face into the circle of people. He nods toward Sam and Rhodey before explaining to Pym and the van Dynes, “Natasha was a spy. The default for her is to keep things close to the vest, but she won’t hold back information if it could put us in danger.”

Her lips thinning with displeasure, Janet reluctantly concedes, "Alright, we won't push. Maybe we can share some of what we do know and see what she offers on her own?"

“Up to a point,” Sam cautions. “I know you want to hear more about her trip to the afterlife, but until we’re sure she’s coping okay, I think we should take it slow. I can't see how dying would be anything but traumatic. She needs to be able to talk about it in her own time."

From his chair by the computer monitors, Pym grumbles something under his breath that makes Janet say his name with exasperation. Rhodey, closer to the Doctor, catches the comment and turns to the man to heatedly say, “Look-”

“They’re here,” Hope interrupts quietly, eyes on the hallway that leads out into the facility. Everyone falls silent at her words and turns to stare.

Clint and Nat are coming through the door, both of them rapidly assessing the cafeteria as they move. The girl is wearing Steve’s blue hoodie - the one he left behind when they headed to the platform less than a day ago. It's huge on her, almost a dress. She has jeans underneath, rolled at the cuffs, and black socks. Her red hair is loose and damp, drying into waves around her shoulders. Barton strolls along at her side, looking more at peace than he did on arrival. That’s a good sign.

Hopeful, Sam crosses the room toward them, vaguely aware of Rhodey following on his six. They meet Clint and his charge halfway to the door. The girl looks alert and unaffected by her near-death experience the day before. She’s so little - even shorter than the day before, when she was still wearing heeled boots. Smaller and so different from the last time he saw Nat, way back before Thanos fucked up the universe. Back then she was platinum blond and grumpy as hell. Being on the run made her leaner and meaner and all but killed her sense of humor. Now she’s looking up at him with those big, green eyes, in that outfit, and it’s hard to see anything but an innocent, young girl. He finds himself looking to Hawkeye for reassurance that the kid really is Nat.

Barton’s expression is unreadable, but his eyes are steady and certain. “Yeah,” he says adamantly.

“Hi Rhodey,” Natasha says, smiling tentatively at Rhodes. Looking toward Sam, her features soften with the same wonder as the day before - the ‘I can’t believe you’re alive’ look that he’s seen in so many faces in the last month. “Hi Sam.”

Rhodey mutters a heartfelt, “Thank god,” as he steps forward to embrace her. He goes beyond his usual one-armer, wrapping her up in a full bear hug. The colonel sighs when Nat hugs him back, blinking back a sheen of moisture from his eyes. 

The moment Rhodey lets her go, Sam steps up. Nat comes easily into his arms, totally relaxed against him even as he clutches her maybe a little too tightly. The rush of relief is dizzying - all night, he watched the girl sleep and wondered if he was crazy to believe that Nat had really come back to them. It was supposed to be impossible, but Steve believed, and now Hawkeye, and Rhodey is clearly on board. Somehow, they got one more miracle. 

If he holds her any longer it’s going to be weird. Reluctantly loosening his grip and and shifting away, Sam looks down at Nat and grins. She’s a cute kid. Lightly tugging one of the loose curls that’s fallen forward to frame her face, he fondly tells her, “Nice to see you in red again, Romanoff.” 

***

_Bruce_

It’s good to see Nat up and walking, and an incredible relief to see the familiarity with which she greets Rhodey and Wilson. “Nat,” Bruce calls. As she turns to look at him, he nervously beckons her over. “How are you feeling? Come over here, sit down.” Picking up one of the green plastic chairs, he lifts it over the cables and sets it down in the middle of the aisle so she’ll have a place to sit.

He feels his gut clench as Nat balks and looks to Clint for guidance. That’s not right. She wasn’t afraid of him the day before, so why would she be hesitant now? Clint doesn’t move as far as Bruce can see, but Nat apparently gets the reassurance she needs from him. She begins to approach, casting a wary glance around at their makeshift command center. The oversized sweatshirt she’s wearing makes her appear uncomfortably childlike, but she moves the same, and looks _so similar_ despite her age. Still, something’s off - he just can’t put his finger on _what_. With Clint, Sam, and Rhodey trailing behind her, Nat picks her way through the cables crossing the floor and obligingly drops onto the plastic chair.

Bruce feels a tiny bit of sadness that he didn’t also receive a hug, but it’s probably for the best.

Peering up at him, the girl says, “I feel okay.” She seems open and earnest and polite, if a little uneasy. And just like that, Bruce knows what’s changed. Nat used to carry everything that ever passed between them heavy in her eyes - regret, affection, _pain_. Now it’s like… it’s like he’s nothing special. 

Before Bruce can react to the realization, Clint bluntly states, "She doesn't know why she's a kid.” 

Sam distracts the girl by grabbing one of the water bottles from the case under the table and handing it to her. A tentative sip immediately turns into eagerly downing over half the bottle as quickly as she can. She has to gasp her first breath when she stops. Even though he’s still reeling a little, Bruce immediately feels a pang of guilt - he never considered hydration, even though she’s been back for twenty-four hours. They should have gotten an IV set up right after Strange’s second visit, maybe sooner. Judging by the looks on Janet and Hope’s faces, they’re thinking the same.

“Hey,” Sam cautions, slightly alarmed, “take it slow. Are you hungry?”

Clutching the water bottle with both hands, the girl uncertainly says, “I don’t think so.” Clint eyes her and she shrugs self-consciously, amending, “Maybe?”

“I’ll grab you a jello,” Rhodey offers. “There’s a ton of the stuff-”

“It can wait,” Dr. Pym interrupts. Having drawn everyone’s attention, he brusquely says, “So. Natasha Romanoff.”

A flicker of Natasha’s keen intelligence animates the teenager’s eyes, though her expression doesn’t change. “I’m sorry,” she replies politely, “I don’t think we’ve met.”

Right, he'd forgotten. Feeling off kilter, Bruce gestures to each of the other scientists as he makes introductions. “This is Dr. Hank Pym, Dr. Janet van Dyne, and Hope van Dyne, also known as the Wasp. They helped to examine you last night, to make sure that you weren’t…” He flounders for a moment, indicating Natasha’s changed body with a wave before concluding, “...like _that_ because of exposure to the quantum realm.”

Sounding skeptical, she asks, “Is that what happened?”

“No,” he assures her. “No quantum contamination whatsoever. The suit did its job.”

The girl seems unsurprised. “So what did happen?”

Irritably, Pym admits, “We were hoping you would know.” He launches into an explanation of what they’ve learned from her space-time GPS, using the visual aid of the graphs he’s pulled up on the monitors. Nat and Clint listen avidly as the aging scientist reports, “According to the suit, this data is an unbroken recording of about nineteen hours, starting when Natasha Romanoff left 2023 a few weeks ago and ending shortly after your arrival yesterday. Here’s the travel from 2023 to 2014. Her vitals here reflect the slightly higher gravity of Morag…” 

The information is nothing new to Bruce, so he tries to do what Nat would during an interrogation - he has to push aside his feelings and study her responses carefully. He used to rely on similar skills to stay one step ahead of the people hunting the Hulk. Now… no matter how wrong it feels, he has to treat the girl with caution until he’s sure that she really is the person he hopes she is. He can’t take anything for granted, just has to assess what _is_. 

“Here’s the trip to Vormir,” Pym continues, “the exertion of climbing a mountain. Here’s a brief period of calm at the top followed by a flurry of activity. An injury to her ribs, and then her right arm. Here’s where she fell.” He pauses dramatically before announcing, “She died instantly on impact.”

The girl seems to be honestly affected by the recitation of the last moments of Natasha’s life as recorded by the suit. Her hands are stiff on the water bottle, her expression one of unsettled recollection. She sounds breathless as she confirms the account with one whispered word - “Yes.” 

Behind her, Clint looks like he’s going to pass out. Sam has an eye on him, so Bruce puts the archer out of his mind and refocuses on Nat. He’s starting to think that Sam might have been right about handling the situation carefully. She’s not responding with gallows humor or a mask of neutrality like he expected; then again, she’s never died before.

Pym goes on to the data that was gathered during her apparent resurrection. “Suddenly it’s 2018,” he says, “the same moment that other data indicates that Thanos destroyed the Infinity Stones. No sign of time dilation or quantum shift. Location relative to the planet changes by several meters. Vitals are back, showing acute distress but with no sign of the injuries to the ribs and arm, and the whole shape of your body is different, smaller. Brain activity - and this is only a surface level reading, I’d love to have a more complete view - is radically divergent for about three minutes, but stabilizes to something approaching pre-death normal after that.”

Natasha’s expression gives little away, but she seems to take this mostly in stride. Either the information isn’t new or isn’t unexpected.

“Fifty-eight minutes later, after some moderate exertion and slowly decreasing O2 saturation, you adjusted the chronometer and travelled to yesterday, only to rapidly decline and pass out. Fortunately, one of your friends has a wizard on speed-dial, and he was able to remove the fluid from your lungs and save you from drowning.” 

“Yeah, good thing Harry Potter makes house calls,” Sam quips shakily, eliciting a fragile smile from the girl. Clint looks like he’s going to be sick, and Bruce gives him an apologetic look over the teenager's head. He'd intended to give the archer a little time to get used to Nat being back before telling him how close she came to dying again.

Dr. Pym goes on as if uninterrupted. Turning his chair, he tells Nat, “We ran every test we could think of while you were unconscious. Genetically, you’re identical to Natasha Romanoff. You’re in almost perfect health. No scars, no sign of ever having a broken bone or serious injury. Your teeth are flawless and match her dental records for placement - good, but _not_ perfect - your hair is apparently the same length, and your muscular development is consistent with someone who trains in martial arts.”

Natasha sounds tentative as she asks, “Does that mean that you don’t think I’m me? Or that you do?” 

Hawkeye lays a hand on her shoulder protectively, his glare boring holes in Dr. Pym. He, at least, seems to be all in on Nat’s identity. As for the girl, she accepts the contact easily, leaning ever-so-slightly into Clint’s touch.

Testily, Pym replies, “Damned if I know. I’m not sure that such a thing as conclusive data exists, considering that reality can be manipulated on a cosmic scale by pretty rocks.”

Janet gently reproves, “Hank.” 

As usual, Dr. Pym’s cynicism never survives his wife’s disapproval. He sighs and grumbles, “Well, I’ve apparently been dust for five years, so it would be a bit hypocritical to say resurrection is impossible. Unless something changes, we’ll just have to work on the theory that you are Natasha Romanoff returned from the dead.”

“I am,” the girl asserts. Then, much less certainly, she admits, “I’m not sure I can prove it, though.”

“We’re not asking you to prove it,” Rhodey assures her. “We’re just glad to have you back.”

Sam jumps quickly in to add, “But we are going to treat you with a little caution for a bit.” He looks apologetic but resolute as he explains, “No offense, you’d kick my ass if I took it for granted that you were completely trustworthy when there’s still a lot we don’t know about _how_ you came back.”

Janet steps forward, smiling kindly down at Nat. “Right now, our hypothesis is that the destruction of the Infinity Stones somehow released you and the other sacrifices, since the timing of the event and the description you gave Captain Rogers match up. That doesn’t explain your apparent age, of course.” To Bruce’s ear, she addresses Nat as the child that she appears to be - not speaking down to her, but certainly modulating her tone to be gentle and reassuring. 

Nat doesn’t seem to mind. Regretfully, she replies, “I wish I could explain, but I don’t remember when I changed.” 

Bruce doesn’t know what to think. Objectively, the girl has Nat’s face, mannerisms, and voice. Everything is just a little off, but that could be a side effect of whatever made her younger. It might also explain the way she looks at Clint for cues and how hesitant and quiet she seems. 

He can’t quite put his finger on it, but she reminds him a little of the way Nat was in that room at the Barton farm, back during the whole Ultron mess. When she spilled out her demons and he stood there in shocked silence when he should have been telling her… Well, he supposes that none of that matters now. The point is, Nat seems unbalanced in the same way as she did after Wanda's attack: a little shell-shocked, unable to find her footing, and relying on Clint for support. She's just missing the edge of desperation that made that encounter so unsettling.

His instincts tell him that she isn’t an imposter, but she’s not quite right, either. The longer Bruce watches her, the more the little differences between this child and his... and Nat, _as she was_ , make his stomach turn. 

***

_Clint_

Shaking her head dismissively, Nat shifts smoothly into mission mode and changes the subject as she asks, “What about the others? I have to go back for them. They’re stuck in a cave, with no food and no way off Vormir.” 

Clint’s throat nearly closes up. He’s not sure what the hell she’s talking about, but it sounds like her mission involves returning to Vormir. His glances around at the others, but no one else in the cafeteria seems particularly surprised. 

“And we’re absolutely going to help them once we get some new suits made,” Sam says, not quite condescending, “but we’ll be sending someone else, Natasha. You’ve done your part.” 

“It has to be me,” Natasha argues. “They know and trust me. If I don’t go, you’ll have to waste time talking them around.” Taking a deep breath, she pulls on a facade of cool competence, though Clint doubts that anyone but him notices it’s only skin deep over a core of frustration. She smooths out her tone, deliberately being as calm and persuasive as possible and cajoles, “I’m not sick anymore, Sam. I know I gave you guys a scare, but I’m fine now.”

Sam gives Clint a pleading look. “Barton-”

Clint throws his hands up, palms out, to stop the younger man. “Don’t drag me into this,” he bites out. When Sam gives him a betrayed look in return, he drops his hands back to his sides. Why Wilson thinks he’s going to have a better chance of talking Nat out of a mission is beyond him. Clint doesn’t even know the full situation yet; all he’s figured out is that there are people who need rescuing on Vormir and Nat feels obligated to help them. The last time he tried to stop her from doing what she felt she had to… Cutting the thought off before it can drag him down, he bitterly states, “I’ve got no say.”

Still maintaining that cool control, Nat says, “You can give your opinion, Clint.” She has to turn to see him over her shoulder. “I’m not going to bite your head off.”

He looks down at her, studying her earnest green eyes and the resolve he can see in the set of her features. His chest feels raw inside, hollowed out by dread for the future twisting together with the grief of past loss. It takes a real effort to match her calm, even tone as he replies, "Alright. I'd be a lot happier if you didn't go back to the place where you _died_ , Natasha." 

Nat’s expression softens with sympathy. “Me too,” she says, genuinely regretful, “but I have to. They’re my friends.” 

There it is. _She has to_. The description of these ‘others’ as her friends prickles his concern - Nat’s never been fast to make friends - but ultimately, it doesn’t matter. The Black Widow has her target in sight, and she’ll find a way to reach it, come hell or high water.

Rhodes gets it, too; he just raises a brow at Wilson and says, “Sam.” 

“...Alright,” Sam says, reluctantly surrendering. He looks like he’s sucking on a lemon, clearly not happy with the lack of support. Grudgingly, he declares, “I can tell when I’m not going to win, but you’re not going alone, Nat.”

Nat nods, always flexible on the details when she doesn’t perceive obstacles on the path to her goal. Looking up to Clint, she hopefully offers, “You could come along.” 

He shakes his head immediately. Maybe she thinks that she’d find his presence comforting, or that it would make him feel better to keep an eye on her, but he can’t see Natasha under the light of that sky again. “No,” he says, more sharply than he’d meant to. “I’d be worse than useless. My mind wouldn’t be on the mission.” 

Rhodes is quick to volunteer in his place. “I’ll go,” he says. “I’ve been in space before.”

“Great,” Dr. Pym barks. It seems like he’s lost patience with the byplay. “Now that that’s settled, let’s get down to brass tacks. Barnes reported that we’re rescuing four aliens and a dog, is that right?”

“Yes,” Nat says agreeably, “but the dog’s an alien, too. So five aliens.”

“I’m going to get that jello,” Sam mutters, heading toward the kitchen.

Hope asks, “Is there any other wildlife or rough terrain to deal with?” 

“Vormir is completely barren,” Nat replies. “There’s no life, so there shouldn’t be any danger. The cave is in a sort of gully, but it’s wide and smooth on the bottom. I didn’t have any trouble getting around.”

“We have the coordinates,” Bruce notes helpfully. “I’m not sure if you remember, but the GPS will ensure a safe landing. There’s no need to worry about ending up inside a wall or another person, though it may place you just outside the cave if there isn’t enough space inside.”

Nat nods. “It was a pretty shallow cave.”

“Your friends,” Sam says, returning with a single-serve cup of red jello - conveniently Nat’s favorite - and a spoon. As he peels off the foil lid, he asks, “What can you tell us about them? Was anyone else having problems with their breathing?”

“Xinn was in the worst shape,” she says. “He’s the youngest, about so tall-” She indicates a height of about four feet. “-and he looks around ten.” Sam holds out the plastic cup and as Nat accepts it and the spoon, she continues, “I think he was screaming when I woke up, but he was unconscious by the time I recovered enough to look around. Ghezit sounded pretty wheezy, but I don’t think he was as sick as me. He’s an adult, a little taller than Rhodey, but skinnier. Baldur, Gamora, and the dog seemed mostly okay.” She pokes a bit suspiciously at the bouncy, jewel-toned surface of the jello, but seems happy with her first bite.

“Wait,” Rhodes interjects, “Gamora? Nebula’s sister, Gamora?”

“That’s the one,” Nat replies readily, flashing him a smile as she digs out another spoonful. “She’s great, you’ll like her.” 

Slowly, Bruce ventures, “The same Gamora who was sacrificed by Thanos in order to get the Soul Stone?”

Nat makes an affirmative noise, her mouth full of jello.

For some reason, Pym makes a sound of choked frustration and turns away to jab at his computers, switching rapidly between screens. At his side, Janet van Dyne is frowning slightly as she uncertainly asks, “Was Gamora also in the ‘garden’ with you?” When Nat nods, the woman goes on, “Did she arrive before or after you?”

“After,” Nat replies cautiously. “Not too long before the end.” Her eyes narrow slightly and flick over the faces around her, assessing. Clint knows she reads confusion on his, and Rhodes seems puzzled as well. Everyone else appears to know something that the three of them don’t, though Hope and Sam are at least trying not to be obvious about it. Nat’s right hand, still holding the spoon, moves subtly in an old signal that asks Clint if he sees anything she’s missing. 

He responds silently, tipping his head fractionally to the left to indicate that he’s got no clue what the issue is. Not quite managing casual, he drawls, “Why is that surprising? Didn’t you say Nat came back at the same time that Thanos destroyed the stones? That’s after Gamora died.”

“That’s true,” Janet replies, absently patting her husband on the shoulder as he takes off his glasses with a more muted sigh and begins rubbing at the bridge of his nose. “It’s nothing to worry about. We just want to get our facts straight.”

“Right,” Sam says. “I’m gonna get you another jello.” To his credit, he manages to scurry away without actually looking like he’s running.

Nat glances down at her cup, still half full, and considers for a moment before shrugging and spooning up another mouthful. Either she’s decided that the strange reaction doesn’t matter, or she figures she can extract the information later. Sam’s already marked himself as a soft target.

Clint, less than pleased with the obvious secret-keeping, gives Bruce a baleful look.

“Let’s move on,” Bruce says awkwardly, avoiding his eyes. “There was one other humanoid?”

“Baldur,” Nat answers obligingly, her mild, pleasant tone giving nothing away. “He’s a little younger than me, but taller. He’s also Asgardian.” Poking at her snack with the tip of the spoon, she casually suggests, “You should probably call in Thor, actually.”

“Thor’s off-world with the Guardians, trying to find himself or something,” Rhodes counters dismissively. “Valkyrie is in charge in New Asgard, now.”

“I’ll give her a call later,” Bruce offers, pulling his tablet out of his pocket and making a note. “Baldur… She’ll probably be happy to hear about him - there are so few Asgardians left, even one will make a big difference.”

“They may be able to help with medical care as well,” Janet suggests. “At least they’d know more about alien physiology.”

As Sam returns with another cup of red jello, Hope asks, “And the dog? Anything we should know?”

Nat shrugs, scooping the last glob out of her cup. “He’s just a big, shaggy dog,” she says with a shrug. Popping the spoon into her mouth, she holds it there while exchanging the empty container for the new one. Extracting the utensil, she adds, “Thanks, Sam.”

“No problem,” he says warmly, but even Clint can see that he’s worried. The question is: _worried about what_? Through a genuine though slightly strained smile, Sam coaxes, “Have some more water.”

The eggheads don’t really have many questions for Nat after getting the list of her fellow sacrifices out of her. They ask about whether anyone mentioned their species or home planet in passing, but Nat doesn’t know much. Apparently, people in the hereafter were pretty close-mouthed about their lives. Thankfully, Bruce thinks that with the help of the Asgardians and the information that Friday can access through the Guardians’ databases, it should be possible to sort out the aliens’ medical needs once they’ve been rescued. If all else fails, they can try calling in Dr. Strange. They can get the equipment they’ll need for time travel from Tony’s workshop, and Bruce is going to handle that. They have Pym particles in abundance, so that’s not even a concern.

As 10 AM rolls around, it seems like they’re ready to let Nat take a break. She’s had three cups of jello and two water bottles, and she’s starting to look uncomfortable. Hope steps up, leaning into her space and murmuring something that Clint doesn’t quite catch. Nat replies just as quietly, nodding.

“I’m going to show Natasha the girl’s room,” Hope announces. “We’ll be right back.” She gestures toward the door and takes the lead heading back toward the lobby. 

Nat trails along obediently, shooting an unreadable look at Clint as she goes. 

The moment the girls pass the bend in the hall and move out of sight, Rhodes turns on Bruce and hisses, “What the hell was that when Nat mentioned Gamora?”

“If you didn’t want her to know that you’re keeping secrets, you failed,” Clint adds scornfully, including Sam with a dark look. “None of you are subtle.”

“It’s probably nothing,” Bruce says unhappily, giving Rhodes and Clint an apologetic look. “We’re just trying to figure out how all of this time travel, space magic, resurrection stuff works and the pieces aren’t quite coming together.”

“Specifically,” Janet clarifies, “it seems like the only way that both Natasha and Gamora could be resurrected together would be if the trigger bridged two timelines. I’m not sure about being in the same afterlife - that’s a little outside my field of study.”

“In our past, Thanos killed Gamora, wiped out half the universe, and destroyed the stones,” Pym says tiredly. “But Romanoff died in a different timeline, one where Thanos and Gamora both ceased to exist _four years_ before he could sacrifice his daughter. Our timeline and that one _should_ be mutually exclusive.”

Frowning, Rhodes asks, “Isn’t the whole point of the Infinity Stones that they could do anything?”

“There are still limits,” Sam objects. “Or there should be, right?”

“Why?” Rhodes crosses his arms and shrugs as he derisively asks, “Maybe the stones are exactly what it says on the tin: _infinite_. Without limits.”

None of this shit matters as far as Clint is concerned. “Bruce, is whatever brought Nat back going to undo what we did with the stones?” He’s almost positive the answer is no, since they’re not already calling in reinforcements, but the thought is an icy coil sliding up his spine. 

Taken aback, Bruce immediately says, “No, I don’t know why it would. That event is in the past and there’s no indication of instability in the quantum-”

Clint cuts him off to demand, “Is Nat in danger? Is she going to- to die or disappear?”

“We don’t think so,” Janet tells him, laying a preemptive hand on her husband’s shoulder. She looks almost apologetic, maybe for not being able to give him a definitive no. “We’re not reading anything strange from the girl - no radiation or unusual energies.”

Emphatically, Bruce swears, “Clint, I promise I would tell you - both of you -” He nods toward Rhodes as well, including him. “- _and_ Nat - if we had any concerns about her health or the stability of her existence.”

“So that’s it, then?” Rhodes asks skeptically. “You just don’t want Nat to know that your time travel theory might have some holes in it?”

“Not yet.” Delicately, Janet explains, “We don’t want to influence any information Natasha might have. She may know more than she thinks about how she came back. Additionally, I think Sam is right.” She nods to him, sounding like she’s conceding an argument as she says, “I agree that we need to tread carefully. She’s showing clear signs of being traumatized. Once the other survivors have been rescued, we can get accounts from each of them and maybe fill in the blanks.” 

Sam tips his head politely, accepting the implicit apology. 

Clint isn’t sure he agrees with that assessment, but if it gets them to go easy on Nat for a while, they can believe what they want. If she’s traumatized… Well, Nat knows how to deal with that on her own. She had to learn young. If there’s anything he can do, he trusts that she’ll let him know.

“Great,” Rhodes says. “So secrets now, questions later?”

“For now, it’s been decided that it’s better for Miss Romanoff to stay focused on this rescue mission,” Pym confirms grouchily. “At least the trip could give us valuable data.”

“Yeah, about the mission…” Sam ventures. “There are some other things we should discuss in private. We were thinking-” He stops mid-sentence, eyes on the hallway.

The girls are back. Dumb as it is, Clint gives his partner a quick scan as she enters the cafeteria to make sure she’s okay. Unsurprisingly, she looks perfectly fine.

“Natasha,” Janet calls, stepping past Clint, “What do you think about taking a trip to the mall in town to get you some clothes that fit?” 

Nat slows to a stop and looks down at the rolled sleeves of her borrowed hoodie. Nodding, she meets the older woman’s eyes and replies, “Okay.” 

Smiling approvingly, Janet says, “I’ll get my purse. Hope, why don’t you bring the car around to the front door?” She moves briskly to meet her daughter. Hope, only halfway into the room, is clearly nonplussed but readily turns on her heel. She digs in her pocket and pulls out a set of keys with a red matchbox car keychain as they leave the cafeteria together.

Crossing the floor to Nat’s side, Clint raises a brow at her and receives a tiny shrug in response. With a curious glance toward Bruce and Pym, she asks, “We’re all done, then?”

“Yeah,” Bruce confirms, “for now, we’re all set. Clint-” 

“We should find you some shoes,” Clint says, glancing at Nat’s sock-covered feet. He looks back over his shoulder. “Sam, do you know if there are any shoes she can borrow?”

Sam, already walking up to join them, looks down and almost immediately shakes his head. “I don’t think so. Maybe the ladies can make that their first stop.”

“...Fine,” Clint says. He tips his head toward the hallway and starts making his way to the door, keeping his pace comfortable for Nat’s shorter stride as she falls into step with him. Wilson follows, saying nothing.

They leave the spacious cafeteria and walk toward the lobby, passing abandoned staff offices on the left and a series of plush rec rooms on the right. Clint can see that Wilson is trying to give him meaningful looks and guesses that the guys want to have that private conversation right away. He’d be all for it, but they’re at least forty-five minutes from town. Between the round trip drive and however long it takes to get what Nat needs, she’ll be gone for hours. That’s too long. There’ll be time to talk later. 

Sam falls behind as they cross the lobby, choosing not to follow them outside. Nat leads the way as they pass through the doors and step out into the sunlight. Taking a deep breath of crisp air, she lifts her face up to stare at the cloudless, brilliant blue sky. Her hair looks like fire. 

The van Dynes are flanking a small, red car that’s pulled up in front of the building. Hope is on the driver’s side, her mother standing by the open passenger-side door. Janet smiles wryly as Clint emerges behind Nat, but her expression shifts to simply pleasant immediately. Focusing on his partner, she asks, “Ready to go?” Receiving a nod in reply, she turns her smile on Clint and says, “We can take it from here, Mr. Barton. You should stay and help with the planning. I’m sure that Sam and Colonel Rhodes would welcome your insight.”

Nat glances at him with faint concern. “That’s not a bad idea.”

It’s a terrible idea. Clint crosses his arms and looks past her, glaring at the car. “I don’t like this,” he says. 

“It’ll be fine," Natasha says. "Nothing’s going to happen.” She’s doing a good job of projecting reassurance, but he knows her too well; she’s not as comfortable with the situation as she’d like him to think. 

He meets her gaze steadily and keeps his voice neutral for the spectators as he implores, “Nat.” For Christ’s sake, it’s been a couple of hours since he found out she was alive. He’s not ready to let her out of his sight yet. _Come on, Nat..._

“We’re just going into town for shopping and lunch,” Janet van Dyne says. Her patience is clearly waning, her sympathy starting to gain an edge. Feigning skepticism, she asks, “Do you really want to hang around outside the changing rooms while we buy underwear for a teenage girl?” If they were friends, it might sound like teasing. As it is, it’s a couple of steps shy of mockery.

Clint pastes on a cocky smirk and retorts, “I’ve been through worse.” 

“I promise to bring her back in one piece, Hawkeye,” Hope announces with none of her mother’s droll humor. To his mild surprise, she seems to be deadly serious.

Nat uncertainly says his name, trailing off without making an argument. He can’t tell what she’s thinking, but it’s pretty clear that she’s not going to back him up.

"It'll be four hours, tops," Janet declares. Half-kidding, she offers, "If you like, we can call every hour to check in."

Clint glowers at her, but if Nat thinks that there’s some benefit to going off alone, he may just have to take what he can get. Shifting his attention to Hope, he emphatically says, "Every hour." She nods promptly, accepting the task like it’s a mission. For whatever reason, the younger van Dyne seems to respect his reluctance to be separated from his best friend; he’ll trust her to follow through for the moment. Looking to Natasha, he frowns and says, "Nat…"

She steps into his space and hugs him, slender arms winding around his ribs, head tucking comfortably under his chin. It’s a blatant attempt at appeasement, almost amateurishly obvious. It’s also absolutely effective, draining the fight out of him all at once. Damn her, it’s completely unfair for Nat to apply Lila’s tactics, and even more unfair that he’s apparently a sucker for the ploy. Sighing, Clint wraps his arms around her slim shoulders and returns the embrace. 

The van Dynes share a look and climb into the car, closing the doors and giving them a moment of privacy. Clint lets himself cling for another second before he pulls away. “Alright,” he says gruffly. “Alright, just…”

“Don’t worry,” Nat says, quirking a little smile at him. “I’ll be careful, Clint.”

“Sure, I’ve heard that before,” he scoffs. Taking a step back, he sighs. “Okay, get going.”

He gets another small smile, and then she’s climbing into the back seat of the car. Watching near-strangers drive away with Nat is harder than it should be. It's a little too much like putting Cooper on the bus to school for the first time, but with an added heaping of dread. Maybe that's why he gave in - because what he's feeling is so over the top. God, he used to watch that woman waltz into warehouses full of armed criminals with less stress.

Of course, she wasn't fifteen back then. She hadn't died before, right in front of his eyes - just falling away toward the unforgiving stone, not even knowing if her sacrifice would have any meaning. He scrubs a hand over his face, shaking the image of an alien sky out of his head. _Get it together, Barton_.

“Clint?”

Spinning on his heel, he finds Sam holding the door open while watching him with concern and sympathy. “Hey,” the younger man says. “You alright?”

“Yeah, fine,” Clint says, putting on his neutral mask.

Sam looks less than convinced, but he politely refrains from doing his counselor thing and asks, “You want to come in? We were hoping to talk about the situation.” 

Clint nods sharply and re-enters the building. “I’m going to need Hope’s number,” he says gruffly.

Without a word, Sam pulls out his phone and obligingly sends him her number. It’s the work of a moment to save Hope van Dyne to his contact list and shoot her a text. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” Sam says easily.

They head back to the cafeteria. Sam stays silent as they walk, doing a good ‘present and available to talk’ air without actually saying anything. Clint stays silent and Sam follows suit.

In the cafeteria, the others are just standing around waiting, Bruce and Rhodes looking awkward while Pym busies himself with the computers. The single chair still sits in the middle of the aisle. “Alright,” Clint says brusquely as he and Sam approach, “What the hell is so urgent that you had to get Nat out of the building to talk about it? Is this still about the timeline thing?”

“No,” Bruce says, “that’s tabled until we have more data.” 

Sam passes the chair and comes to a stop beside Rhodes, forming a united front with Bruce filling up the aisle between the Avengers and Pym. Half-turning to address everyone, Sam crosses his arms and speaks in a measured voice as he says, “I want to make sure we’re all on the same page. We all agree that the kid _is_ Nat, right?”

“Yes,” Clint says immediately. “She’s Nat.” She _is_ , he’s sure of it.

Rhodes nods his agreement. “Yeah. Yeah, I think so.” He seems pretty confident, and Clint is grudgingly appreciative. He doesn’t like it, but between their time together on the post-Sokovia Avengers and the years Nat spent working with Rhodes after the Decimation, the colonel’s verdict probably means about as much as Clint’s.

Bruce tasks longer to answer, pausing for long enough for all eyes to be on him before he bobs his head once and pensively concurs, “Yeah. It’s her.”

Pym remains focused on his work and keeps his peace, though Clint has no doubt he’s listening. 

“Okay, great,” Sam says, obviously relieved to have his own opinion supported. “Do we think she’s being… I don’t know, influenced or controlled? Or is this rescue thing legit?”

“Wait, what?” Appalled, Clint snaps back, “Of course it’s legit, it’s _Nat_. You don’t trust her?”

"No, man," Sam sighs. "I'm saying… Look, she's different, and I’m not just talking about the fact that she’s what? Fourteen? I mean, when was Nat ever _shy_? Why's she act like she barely knows Banner? Why’s she checking with you before she’ll walk into a room?”

"How come she didn't even notice that she's twenty-something years younger until you told her?" Rhodey chimes in. 

Clint can’t deny that he’s seen some odd behavior from Nat since she came back, but it rubs him wrong that they’re doubting her just because she’s not putting up a facade for them. She’s only vulnerable because she gave everything to save the universe. They’ve got no right to go behind her back to pick her apart. “Nat _died_ ,” he reminds them angrily, trying to ignore the pain in his throat as he grinds the words out. “Of course she’s going to need some time to get her head together.”

The expression in Sam’s dark eyes isn’t pity, but it’s too damn close. "Look, Clint… You know I used to work as a counselor for the VA,” he says, using a gentle ‘come down from the ledge’ voice that makes Clint want to punch him. “I saw a lot of vets who’d been through some really rough times. You know what this reminds me of?"

Regretfully, Rhodes answers, "Traumatic Brain Injury. Yeah."

The air goes thin. Anger gives way to fear so fast that Clint feels like he’s in freefall. "She's not-” He whirls on Bruce and insists, “You said she was fine. Healthy."

Bruce gestures placatingly with his huge hand, quick to assure him, "Yes, she’s healthy. Nat has a perfectly intact, fully functional brain.” But he hesitates, and there’s no comfort in the pained expression he wears. Cautiously, he suggests, “But it’s possible that there are some side effects from the injury that… that killed her. Maybe she didn't get put back together quite… right."

“Clint, this isn’t an attack on Nat,” Sam says sympathetically. “We can’t help her if we pretend everything is fine.”

Clint still hates it, but he nods reluctantly. Sam nods with him, the tactic immediately recognizable as one of Nat’s - Wilson is trying to build rapport. Clint can’t even be mad; he’s too tired. Sighing, he scrubs a hand over his face.

“Look,” Sam continues, “I meant what I said earlier - Nat would be the first one to tell us not to take anything for granted when one of our own comes back from the dead, acting kind of weird and insisting that we use the most dangerous technology we’ve got to go on an urgent mission. I’m not saying we don’t listen to her, I just want to make sure we keep our eyes open.”

“Right,” Clint agrees numbly. “Eyes open.”

“How about we talk about the mission,” Rhodes ventures.

“Yes, let’s talk about the mission,” Pym says, half-turning away from the computer. His tone is brisk and abrasive, but the old man seems more subdued than before. “Obviously we want to get this done with quickly. What kind of risks are we looking at?” 

“Some danger we don’t know on Vormir,” Rhodey suggests. “The survivors could be aggressive to strangers, but Nat seems pretty sure that she has that handled.”

“We can’t let the ability to time travel get out,” Pym emphasizes. “This will be the first time that the tech is being handed to complete unknowns.”

“We can black box the GPS for the sacrifices,” Bruce suggests. “No controls, just one-way travel, preset coordinates, one Pym particle each. They’re constructed of nanotech, so making them go inert if someone tries to take them apart shouldn’t be difficult. And Nat… well her device will need to make a round trip, but I can do something similar to ensure that she can only go to Vormir and come back, maybe with a preset interval?” 

“I want a panic button on Nat’s unit,” Clint says quickly. Glancing at Rhodes, he says, “She won’t use it unless there’s no other choice, so if things go south, you’re going to have to make sure she gets out.”

“That’s a good idea,” Bruce says as Rhodes nods his agreement. “Your own device will have all the bells and whistles, Rhodey, but I can make sure everything is coded to your suit’s AI. It won’t work if someone takes it off you. I should be able to give you a remote activation for Nat as well.”

“That brings up the question of manufacturing these devices,” Pym says. “Dr. Banner, you said you could call Stark’s widow and use his equipment. With the modifications you’re suggesting, what kind of timeframe are we looking at?”

Bruce shrugs uncertainly. “Tony was able to whip up the prototype device in a matter of days, and with Friday’s help, it should go quickly. If Pepper says yes, I’ll take the jet to the lake house immediately. Worst case, I’d guess about a week. Best case, I could be back by dinner.”

“What if she says no?” Sam asks.

“Then it’s going to take longer,” Pym says. “We could do it in my lab, eventually, but we’d have to reverse engineer some of the tech. We’d probably be looking at a month or two, minimum.”

“Right,” Bruce says. “Might as well get started. I’ll give Pepper a call and see if she’s free.” Pulling out his tablet, he waves it at the group and says, “Wish me luck.” He turns and heads off down the aisle, murmuring to the virtual assistant.

That seems to be it. Pym turns back to his computer with a little huff, and Sam and Rhodes share a look. Since they don’t seem to need him anymore, Clint snags a bottle of water and turns to leave. He needs some time to think, and maybe find a good spot on the second or third floor to keep an eye on the driveway. He barely makes it twenty feet before Wilson calls his name. He stops, irritation and exhaustion tightening a screw between his shoulder blades.

The younger man catches up to him in a few quick steps and says, “I gotta run to my room anyway - let me show you yours. Nat’s will be right next door.” 

Okay, that would actually be helpful. “Thanks,” Clint says, trying not to sound surly. 

They head back to the lobby, and Clint takes a moment to grab his duffel bag from the chair where he left it before they head up the sleek, modern staircase that leads to the second floor. There’s a walkway all around the room, like an extended balcony, and Sam indicates a hallway on the left with a tasteful plaque that says ‘Boys’ Dorms’. As they turn down the hall, he can see that the wall along the right side is lined with doors with little numbered plaques. The other wall is all windows, overlooking the parking lot.

Sam’s kept his peace so far, but now that they’ve got a little privacy, he asks, “So… are you sure you’re okay with letting Nat go back to Vormir?”

 _Fuck no!_ He doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to stomach Nat being in danger again, not when he knows how it feels to lose her. But that’s the second time Wilson implied that Clint could overrule Nat’s decisions, and it’s starting to rankle. Clint side eyes the guy and coldly points out, “I spoke my piece and she made her decision. Also, I don’t ‘let’ Nat do anything. She’s not my property.” 

“No, of course not,” Sam says, making a face. “But she is your…” He trails off, uncomfortable, and then continues in a careful tone, “You know you’re her next of kin, right?”

Because of paperwork from the Avengers, or maybe even SHIELD. She probably should have switched it to Rogers sometime in the last five years, but he can see how that wouldn’t have been the first thing on her mind. “Rhodes mentioned that.”

“It’s legal, and pretty comprehensive - I checked. You’ve got the right to make decisions for her if she can’t for any reason.”

“So?”

“So technically, she’s underage,” Sam explains. The words drag out of him and he looks kind of queasy, glancing over his shoulder like he’s worried about being overheard. “And she might not be entirely herself. As her legal guardian-”

“Hold on,” Clint says sharply. He can hear his pulse in his ears and the straps of the duffel bag creak in his grip. Nat would kill him. She’d hate him. No, she’d understand, but she’d still kick his ass and do what she wanted. He takes a deep breath and really looks at Wilson. What he sees is fear - not of Clint, but of making the wrong decision or not doing enough. He’s seen that look in Cap’s eyes plenty of times. Briefly, he wonders where Steve is, but he pushes the thought away for later. For whatever reason, Sam seems to have taken up the burden of leadership in the super soldier’s absence. “I get what you’re trying to do,” he tells Sam, “but you know Nat too well to think that would work. And I’m not that guy, okay?” 

Sam deflates and nods. “Yeah, okay,” he says quickly, both disappointed and remorseful. “Sorry, man.”

“No worries.” Clint can’t really blame him for trying to find a way around sending Natasha to Vormir. When it comes down to it, Sam just wants to protect Nat, and he _can’t_. Clint knows better than anyone how that feels. “So, which room is mine?”

***

_Bucky_

Lunch sits heavy in his stomach; Bucky should have known that even after seventy-five more years of practice, there was no way Steve Rogers was ever going to be a decent cook. Then again, maybe the ache in his belly is just a reaction to the book in front of him. He sits back in the sturdy wooden chair and gives his best friend a long look over the small kitchen table. “You know, that still doesn’t explain how Peggy was able to put up with you for all those years.”

“Well, someone had to change the diapers and take the kids to the dentist,” Steve says, chuckling as he draws the open photo album back toward himself. “It wasn’t all bedtime stories and pool parties, you know. I admit, though, I almost got put out on my ear in the year between Chess going to college and the birth of Lexie’s oldest.” He smiles down at the plastic pages, leafing through memories that go from black and white to sepia toned to brightly technicolor, and looking at them transforms his weathered face. “I like to think… that I gave her back some small measure of the joy she gave me.”

“Of course you did, Stevie,” Bucky chides softly. “Come on, now.”

Steve smiles at him, forlorn and delighted at the same time, and looks back down at the album. Considering the pictures in front of him, he carefully pulls one free of the plastic sleeve and slides it back across the wooden surface toward Bucky. “I’d like you to hold onto this one, Buck.”

It’s a nice picture - two men, both past middle age but still hardy and well-muscled, holding the hands of a laughing little girl as they easily swing her into the air between them. One of the men looks eerily like Bucky’s grandfather and is missing his left arm. The other is Steve, midway between the man he is now and the one who left to return the stones a day ago. They look happy, untainted. The child’s streaming hair glows like fire in the sun. Bucky sighs. “Steve,” he says warningly, “she’s not the same girl.”

“I know,” the old man replies. He closes the album, his weathered hands smoothing lovingly over the faded verse on the pale blue cover. The words are hand-written in precise cursive: _So now faith, hope, and love abide, these three; but the greatest of these is love.” – 1 Corinthians 13:13_. “But Nat’s family, too.”

He doesn’t like it, but Bucky picks up the photo and tucks it into his jacket. “Right,” he says, standing. “We should probably get going. We’re supposed to pick up Maximoff in thirty minutes.”

Ten of those minutes pass while they take turns hitting the head, gather their things from Steve’s spartan Brooklyn apartment, and head down to the street where the SUV is parked. No one outside takes any notice of them, too caught up in their own business. They’re on the road with plenty of time to make it to their rendezvous.

Steve is blessedly quiet as Bucky navigates through the busy streets of New York. He keeps his eyes out the window, smiling faintly at the scenery drifting by. Bucky focuses on their route, checking sightlines and trying to keep his mind in the moment instead of thinking about the pictures from Steve’s perfect life. How is he supposed to compare to a James Buchanan Barnes who never quite became the Winter Soldier? A simpler man, a happier man, who dandled Steve’s kids and grandkids on his knee and showed up for Fourth of July barbecues for sixty years? 

“That’s where I ran group meetings,” Steve says out of the blue, nodding to a nondescript building as they drive by.

“Yeah, you’ve pointed it out before.” Two weeks ago - Sam had been surprised and pleased that Steve had gotten into therapy. He supposes it’s been a lot longer for the old man beside him. “You should probably be thinking about how to let them know you’re retiring.”

“Ah, well,” Steve says regretfully. “I’d made other arrangements for the group back when Scott Lang showed up at the compound. That was the last time I spoke to any of them. They all knew who I was, so with everything that’s been happening lately…” He trails off, pursing his lips.

Bucky stares out the windshield, his hands tightening on the steering wheel. “You’re just going to disappear?”

“You think that’s a bad idea?”

“I think people are going to notice if Captain America disappears right after the Avengers brought half the people on Earth back to life.” He glances over at Steve’s sigh. “Honestly, Steve, it’s not that hard. Have Sam and Rhodes do a press conference and either claim the serum wore off or announce that you died on some mission.”

“Closure,” Steve says softly.

“Yeah, that.”

Steve falls back into silent contemplation. They make good time to the station, but Maximoff is already there, leaning against a railing and browsing through her phone. He can tell she’s had some training in being inconspicuous in public, probably from the Widow, but the effort is largely wasted. She’s doing all the right things and yet still failing to blend in - at least to Bucky’s eyes. Besides just being a pretty girl, there’s something about Maximoff that draws attention. The only thing working in her favor is that, if he didn’t already know what she’s capable of, he doesn’t think his training would peg her as a threat. 

He pulls the car up at the curb. Maximoff glances up and though Sam promised that she’d been warned in advance, she looks gobsmacked at the sight of Steve through the car window. To her credit, she gets the reaction under control quickly. Pushing away from the rail, she makes her way to the car and gracefully slides into the backseat, placing her full backpack beside her.

“Hello Steve,” Maximoff says, sounding subdued. “Sergeant Barnes.” In the rearview, Bucky can see that she’s staring at the back of Steve’s silver-haired head as if he’s some strange species of fish. Her eyes aren’t lit up, so she probably isn’t using her powers to read his mind or anything.

“Wanda,” Steve says, twisting in his seat even though she’s directly behind him. Smiling, probably only catching a glimpse of her out of the corner of his eye, he tells her, “It’s so good to see you.”

The woman makes a faint sound that could be agreement and keeps staring.

There were no pictures of Maximoff in Steve’s family album. He’ll have to remember to ask about that later. For now, he shoves the thought down just in case and focuses on the task at hand. Bucky sees an opening and pulls away from the curb, merging into traffic and beginning the long drive North. “We’ll find a Starbucks once we get out of the city,” he says, meeting the witch’s eyes in the mirror. “Stevie’s treat.”

***

_Bruce_

The flight to Pepper’s takes barely any time at all, but it’s long enough to make another call. The phone rings four times. Bruce is just starting to formulate what he’ll say in the voicemail when the line picks up.

“Banner,” Valkyrie’s voice says in greeting. She doesn’t accept the video option, so it looks like they’ll just be on speakerphone. “When you said we should talk more often than once every five years, I didn’t think I’d hear from you so soon.”

“Hey, Angry Girl,” he replies fondly. “Do you have a minute to talk?”

“Yeah. Hold on.” She grunts, sounding like she’s shifting something heavy. “So what’s up? Nothing universe-threatening, I hope?”

“No, nothing like that.” Bruce adjusts the balance of the tablet on his knee, idly missing the days when he had two working hands and could hold a phone in one while getting things done with the other. Absently, he scratches at the line of pins and needles that separates his healthy skin from the numb, burned section over his collarbone. “Do you remember Natasha Romanoff?”

“Yes, of course,” she says promptly. “What about her?”

“She came back yesterday, alive.” Before she can ask questions, he rushes on, “It’s a long story, but we’re going to help her rescue some people who are stranded in the past, and according to Nat, one of them is an Asgardian child.”

He can hear the frown in her voice as she asks, “Are you sure?”

“I haven’t seen him, but Nat seems sure.”

Val is silent for a moment, then asks, “Does this child have a name?”

“Uh… yes.” He didn’t expect her to ask, but he did mark it down… Scrolling through his notes, he replies, “Here it is - Baldur, no surname. She said he was in reasonably good health - better than some of the other survivors, anyway. I wanted to ask-” 

“Hold on,” she snaps, cutting him off. It sounds like she puts a hand over the mic - he can hear her speaking sharply - almost shouting - but the sound is muffled and the words unintelligible. Abruptly, she comes through clearly again, brusquely demanding, “When are you rescuing these people?”

“Um, as soon as possible,” he replies. “Tomorrow, if I can get the equipment we need made. I’m working on that now.” 

“Send me the information. I’ll be there, with healers.” She hangs up before he can thank her.

Of course, it’s no wonder that Val is interested in the boy. There are so few Asgardians left, even one more would make a huge difference to the survival of her people. Bruce creates a group message between himself, Val, Sam, and Dr. Pym asking them to post all of the pertinent data. They’ll have more time to respond to questions and make arrangements than he will.

A few minutes later, he arrives at the lake house where Tony lived for the last few years of his life. It’s a beautiful property; he regrets that his only prior visit was for the memorial service. 

The onboard computer manages the landing sequence, and Bruce already has everything he needs in his pockets. As the jet settles, Bruce lowers the ramp and begins to descend. He’s halfway down when little Morgan bursts out of the house and comes pelting down the stairs, long, brown hair trailing behind her and a small, white shape bumping along at her heels. She’s halfway across the yard when Pepper and Happy emerge from the same door.

“Morgan,” Pepper calls urgently, “Morgan, wait for Mommy!” 

The little girl stumbles to a halt, quickly taking in Bruce before looking past him into the interior of the jet. She looks like she’s expecting someone else. The white thing by her feet is some kind of small robot. It’s the size of a cat, with an egg-shaped body and a roughly triangular head, featureless except for glowing blue eyes. There’s an arc reactor mounted on the chest - the wide end of the egg - and baseball-sized, spherical wheels where the legs should be. The bot tips its head to the side, giving the impression of studying Bruce with curiosity.

“Bruce,” Pepper says warmly, moving to her daughter’s side and laying a gentle hand on the crown of the girl’s head. She looks good, casually elegant even in a heavy cream sweater and jeans. She favors him with a tired but genuine smile. “It’s good to see you.”

“You too, Pepper,” Bruce replies in kind. “Hello Morgan, Happy.”

Happy nods a little stiffly, but Morgan doesn’t seem to be paying attention. She’s still looking into the jet, her expectant expression fading into disappointment.

Smoothing her daughter’s hair, Pepper coaxes, “Morgan, why don’t you go inside with Happy? It’s almost time for your snack.”

“Okay,” Morgan says dejectedly. “C’mon, Radly.” Turning, she troops away slowly, kicking at the stiff, autumn grass with her little sneakers. The robot executes a deft three-point turn and follows. As the girl climbs the stairs to her waiting uncle, the robot rises into the air, powered by tiny repulsors along the underside, and floats after her. 

Happy speaks softly to the drooping child as he leads her inside. 

“Cute robot,” Bruce comments.

“Tony’s work, of course…” Pepper says with a bittersweet smile. “We agreed not to give Morgan too many electronic toys, but he couldn’t resist designing them. He had dozens of schematics saved, even put some of them together for component testing before breaking them down. Friday showed me after the funerals were over and suggested building Radly as a last gift from Tony to Morgan. Since she had the materials to fabricate it in the garage…”

“That’s nice,” he says softly. “For Morgan to have something her dad created just for her.”

“Yes,” Pepper agrees. “And Radly has all sorts of educational and developmental and security features. He even helps Friday monitor Morgan so she can have a little independence.” She taps her slim, black watch - another sleek Stark product - and laughs wryly. “Tony could never do anything halfway.” 

Bruce smiles weakly. “That’s an understatement.”

Pepper smiles back and, probably noticing that he’s terrible in these situations and has no idea what to say, changes the subject. “So, you said that you need to use Tony’s workshop?”

“Yes, if that’s okay.”

“Of course,” she says. “It’s in the garage.” She gestures toward the low building set a short distance from the house. It’s built to match the cabin in overall look, but the surprisingly small structure - only large enough for two cars - is clearly a later addition to the property. 

“Thank you, Pepper,” Bruce says, nodding to his hostess. He heads to the garage, not even a little surprised when the door rolls up at his approach. The space inside is unexpected - there are some simple tools on the wooden work tables against the back wall, but nothing that wouldn’t be used on the cars that sit quietly inside, taking up most of the floorspace. Bruce pauses, confused, and hears a hiss of releasing air to his right. 

Moving to that side, he rounds the red Audi just in time to see a section of floor along the wall lower and form a wide ramp down into darkness. Light flares, blue and white, and Bruce can see that the hidden basement is a lot more like what he would have expected of Tony Stark. Even through the small gap, the predominance of metal and glass in the construction is obvious. He has to smile as he heads downward - of course Tony would have a secret underground lab at his isolated, rustic cabin.

No, not a lab. A _complex_. Bruce’s jaw drops as he enters what is clearly only the highest floor of a facility that extends at least another two levels down. The ceiling is a comfortable fourteen feet high, the gleaming, empty room about as large as a squash court. The framing and ceiling are metal, but the walls and floor are primarily glass. There are computers in adjacent rooms all around, rows and rows of sleek, advanced, black servers. Below the transparent floor, the lights remain off; there seems to be some level of polarization in the glass, because he can see some hints of tables and equipment, but the details are obscured. The lights and computers are silent, but there’s a faint sound coming from below… the distant rumble of some kind of heavy machinery working deep underground.

“Hello, Doctor Banner,” Friday says in her signature lilt. “How can I help you today?”

“Hello Friday,” he replies, awed. He fishes the thumb drive out of his pocket and asks, “Do you have anywhere I can plug this in?”

A glossy black panel against the far wall lights up, a blue arrow pointing toward the bottom right corner of the screen. Bruce chuckles as he crosses the room and plugs the drive into the port he finds there. “There - hopefully you have everything you need for this project.”

There’s a brief pause before the AI replies, “Yes, Dr. Banner. It will take a few hours to make the necessary adjustments to the base programming and manufacture the equipment.”

“Please do so.” A sound from the lab’s entrance has him turning to find his hostess descending the ramp.

“Impressive, isn’t it?” Pepper asks with a wry smile. She has a drink in each hand - a travel mug and a much larger vessel, almost like a high-tech stein. She offers him the Hulk-sized container, the weight of it clear in the flexing of her arm.

“It’s amazing,” Bruce agrees, taking the drink with his one good hand. “I had no idea.”

“He did something similar under the house in Malibu,” she says. “Though at least with this lab, he told me before the fact.” Looking around fondly, she comments, “I couldn’t shut it down. There’s so much of Tony in this place, and Friday has been a godsend - especially when Happy is in the city, keeping an eye on Peter.” 

Vaguely associating the name with one of the boys from Tony’s memorial service, Bruce uncertainly guesses, “Spider-kid?”

“That’s him,” she confirms. “He meant a lot to Tony. I wanted to honor that, but Peter’s aunt…” She drifts off, then gives Bruce a bright, artificial smile and briskly concludes, “Well, I wish I could do more for him.” 

“Is there anything I can help with?”

“No, it’s fine,” she assures him. “Happy is taking care of things. But we’re getting off-topic.” She gestures to the brightly lit room, to the lights blinking on the panels before them. “You were a bit vague about what you needed the lab for.” 

He hesitates, taking a sip of his drink - iced tea, it turns out. He’s pretty sure that it’s the brand he preferred when he lived at the tower. He wonders whether she shares his tastes or had Happy run to the store.

She reads his uncertainty as reluctance. Firmly, Pepper states, “Bruce, I’m not going to stop you from doing whatever you need to do. You were Tony’s friend, and I trust you. You don’t have to tell me. I just don’t want to be blind-sided if anything could come back to this house.”

“It’s not that I don’t want to tell you, Pepper,” he assures her. “I’m just trying to figure out how to explain.” He lays his hand on the console, running his fingers lightly over the surface. Friday is smart enough to tell that he’s not actually trying to key anything in, and he smiles at the small reminder of Tony’s brilliance. Deciding that it’s best to get the hardest part over with first, he announces, “Natasha’s back. She’s alive.”

Her eyes widen in shock, and it takes her a moment to process her emotions. There’s disbelief, grief, and a little envy, but a wistful sort of happiness wins out in the end. “That’s wonderful,” she says softly, with a tremulous smile. “And she’s okay?”

“It’s complicated,” Bruce admits. “She’s younger. It doesn’t seem like she remembers everything.”

Nonplussed, Pepper hesitantly asks, “How much younger?”

He shrugs and guesses, “Mid-teens?”

Absorbing the news with a look of bemusement, she ventures, “Are you looking for a way to turn her back to normal?”

“No,” he says, surprised. It’s a tempting thought, but outside of intentionally playing with Nat’s quantum signature, he can’t think of a feasible method. It would be incredibly unethical to experiment on her when she arguably isn’t capable of consent, but if Clint agreed that it was in her best interests... He takes a deep drink of the tea and then places the container on the floor, uncomfortable with having both hands occupied, as it were. “Uh, no, we hadn’t even considered it.”

“Huh.” Pepper shakes her head and takes a sip of her own drink, studying him thoughtfully. Shrewdly, she observes, “Stop me if I’m overstepping, but Tony mentioned once or twice that you and Natasha…” She trails off with an expressive look.

Embarrassed, Bruce objects, “It wasn’t like that, not really. There was a moment but…” A jumble of memories spill through his mind - a party and a smile, a bedroom and a confession, a kiss and a fall - and it’s so bittersweet that it hurts. “...we missed it.”

She nods but tentatively suggests, “Maybe when she’s a little older…?”

“No. Our ‘thing’, she doesn’t remember it. Me. Not like that.” And that’s the real issue, isn’t it? Changing her age with the time machine wouldn’t fix her memories, even assuming that they could dial in the controls well enough to take her back to where she was a month or a year or five years ago. It’s a silly thing to be hung up on, in any case. It’s not like he enjoyed the awkwardness between them; it just hurts to think that she recognizes and feels affection for everyone _else_.

Sympathetically, Pepper says, “I’m sorry. That must be difficult.”

“I can’t say it’s pleasant, but…” He would say that it’s enough just to have her alive, but he stops himself before he can utter the cruelty.

“It’s okay, Bruce,” Tony’s widow says with a sad, gentle smile. “I’m not going to begrudge anyone their happiness.” Taking a sip of her tea, she declares, “Honestly, Natasha and I might not have been best friends, but I’m glad to hear that she’s alive and mostly well. When Tony called to warn me that you were about to use the stones, and told me that she’d died…” She shakes her head, blinking away tears. “It hit him harder than he let on. Despite the history between them, he was always fond of Natasha.”

They fall into melancholy silence for a few minutes. Bruce doesn’t know what to say, and Pepper seems lost in recollection.

At length, she shakes herself out of it and asks, “So what is it that you’re here for?”

“Oh,” Bruce says, adjusting his glasses. “Um, Nat wasn’t the only person who was sacrificed to the Soul Stone. Several of the others also came back to life, but they’re trapped in the past. We need to do another round of time travel to rescue them.”

“It’s always another crisis, isn’t it?” she muses. Briskly, she tells him, “Well, the workshop is at your disposal. You’ll come by the house before you leave?”

“Yes, of course.” Gratefully, he says, “Thank you, Pepper.”

She smiles and takes her leave, disappearing up the ramp.

“Doctor Banner,” Friday interjects, “While you’re waiting, could I suggest something which might help to jog Miss Romanoff’s memories?”

***

_Wanda_

The sun sets so early these days. By the time the long drive ends at the new home of the remaining Avengers, it’s already dark. Dragging her backpack along, Wanda climbs out of the backseat and surveys the nearly empty lot as she shivers in the chill of the evening air. Besides the black SUV they came in, there are only two parked cars, blue and silver, and a motorcycle.

Steve takes longer to leave the car, though he still moves well for a man of his apparent age. His choice was shocking and unexpected at first, but being near him and feeling the peace he’s found, Wanda can’t fault him. She’s a little jealous, to be honest; if she could go back and have more time with Vis, she would do it in an instant. Unfortunately, for all of her power, there are some things that remain impossible.

Then again, she’s come back to this place because impossible means less every day.

As they approach the entryway of the building, Sam steps out, holding the front door open and calling, “Hey, I was starting to wonder if you got lost. How was the drive?” He grins at Wanda as she reaches him and nods for her to head inside. She smiles back, moving through quickly and glancing back to watch the men file in after.

“Good,” Steve replies, clapping him on the arm companionably on the way in. “Bucky drives like there’s a speed trap every ten feet. How are things around here?”

“Crazy,” Sam says, projecting weariness and anticipation. “But it looks like we’ll be set for Vormir in the morning.” Once everyone is in the lobby, he pulls his phone out of his pocket, hits the power button, and begins typing quickly. “Just texting Clint to let him know you’re here… He’ll bring Nat down. You want to wait here for them…?”

“Sure,” Steve replies easily.

Sam nods as he sends the message and puts away his phone. “I’ll be right back - I’m gonna check and see what we’re doing for dinner. Probably ordering in. Preferences?” 

“Pizza,” Steve answers promptly, even as Wanda hopefully asks, “Chinese?” Bucky just shrugs.

“Two votes for Chinese and one for pizza,” Sam summarizes. “I’ll go see what Rhodey and the shrinky-dink squad want.” He skirts around the lobby furniture and heads off down a hallway at the back right of the room.

Wanda sets her backpack down in a comfy-looking leather chair, feeling a little jittery. Some of it is her own nervous curiosity to see Natasha, but most of it is coming from Bucky. She checks on him out of the corner of her eye, finding that he looks calm despite the tension crackling around him. He’s watching Steve, who seems at ease.

They don’t have to wait long before Clint and Natasha arrive. Bucky is the first to detect them, his gaze cutting upwards to the upper level of the room and a hallway that heads off to the left. Clint looks like he’s missed some sleep, but his hair is growing back in and he looks clean and well-fed. While not unhappy, he carries a shadow with him that Wanda knows all too well. The girl with him...

Wanda covers her mouth with one hand and suppresses a cry of shock. Natasha is dressed typically for a child of her age, her clothing close-fitting enough to make her physical changes easy to see. Her hair falls loose around her shoulders, red curls pulled out to tousled waves. Wanda can’t think of a time that she’s seen Nat looking less put-together, even in the heat of battle. It _is_ Natasha, though. The physical resemblance is obvious, but the shape of her mind, the taste of it - there are no words to describe how the spirit of a person can be recognizable and yet also fundamentally changed, but Wanda _knows_ the soul walking down the stairs.

Bucky’s trepidation seethes as Steve walks toward the base of the stairs, though he conceals his agitation and gives a perfunctory nod to the new arrivals. Clint is all static and stress and protectiveness. In contrast, pure love and joy flows from Steve and Natasha responds with beatific happiness. They embrace, Steve wrapping his arms around the girl as she stands on the lowest step and leans into him. Wanda could cry. It feels like… It feels like _family_. Like _home_.

“Hi Nat,” Steve says warmly.

Natasha’s response is unintelligible, spoken quietly into Steve’s sweater.

The elder chuckles, patting the girl on the back and gently setting her away from him, his hands on her shoulders as he thrums with contentment and replies, “Well, I come by that honestly, at least.” Looking up the stairs, he adds, “Hello, Clint.”

Apparently, no one told Clint about the change in Steve. His expression gives little away, but even at a distance, Wanda can feel a roiling mixture of queasy, negative emotions flare out from him. In a dry voice, the archer replies, “Cap. Been a while, I guess.”

Serene, Steve agrees, "That it has. How's the family?" He releases Nat, letting his arms fall to his sides.

A bubble of guilt and longing rises in Clint before his feelings settle to a low mutter of discontent and anxiety. He grudgingly replies, "Better." 

Natasha moves around Steve and steps down to the floor, ignoring Bucky to approach Wanda. At an arm’s reach away, she stops, clasping her hands behind her back as if to restrain herself from touching. It’s the perfect distance for her aura to barely brush Wanda’s senses. The difference in the woman - no, girl - is startling. Where once Nat felt distinctly like cool, braided water, now she feels golden and kitten-soft. “Wanda,” she says, sincere and open and affectionate. “I’m glad you’re back.”

Wanda manages a weak smile in return. Knowing that Nat would _look_ younger in no way prepared her for what she’s experiencing. “You too,” she replies. 

There’s a flicker of concern before sorrow fills the girl’s green eyes and makes her aura curl at the edges of Wanda’s as if yearning to embrace and comfort her. With regret, Natasha quietly says, “I'm sorry. We didn't bring Vision back, did we?"

As always, the grief swells when she hears his name, but Wanda’s heart warms toward her former teacher and comrade for remembering him and sharing some of that pain. For Natasha, Vis would have been lost years ago, the death only one in a sea of tragedy. To so many of their other friends, the android was an afterthought. Only Wanda truly felt the burden of grief for _Vision’s_ sake. She can’t escape it - she is _always_ thinking of Vis. But Natasha… whatever she has been through, she is still effortlessly empathetic, and her sympathy is underlaid by a soft pang of loss. Smiling despite the tears that fill her eyes, Wanda replies, “No, but thank you for thinking of him." 

Nodding, Natasha earnestly asks, "Are you okay? You're not staying here with Sam and the others."

"No. I've needed some space to think and to grieve. Not only for Vis." _For you, as well_. On impulse, Wanda touches the girl’s cheek lightly and breathes out in wonder. Contact with other people is often difficult - their sorrows and worries beat against the shields that protect her mind and hold her powers back. The surface of Natasha’s mind is like air - light and somehow pure even in grief and concern. She feels like _peace_. Part of her wants to dive in and wrap that feeling around herself, but she quashes the impulse ruthlessly. Wanda couldn't bear it if she hurt the child. “Dying… it changed you,” she says softly. “...and not just your appearance."

"I know," the girl says solemnly.

“Hey,” Sam calls out as he enters the atrium from the hallway in the back right corner. “We’re ordering Chinese _and_ pizza - who wants what?”

***

_Bucky_

The food’s good, but Bucky barely tastes it. The round table in the rec room lets him keep everyone in sight, which is nice, but it’s pretty close quarters should anything happen. The table is meant to seat ten. Barton managed to put his back to the wall opposite the door, and he’s unsurprisingly got Romanoff next to him, on his left. Steve took the seat beside her, which left Bucky side-on to the open door. The two chairs after him are empty, the second one still shoved out of the way from when the food was brought in. Then comes Maximoff, Sam, and Rhodes, with another empty chair between Rhodes and Barton. The three scientists who were in the building earlier went out somewhere for dinner and Banner is expected to show up eventually. No one else should be in the building.

At first, the conversation focuses on getting Romanoff up to date on what’s happened since her death. Bucky has little to nothing to contribute, but he watches how the others interact as the vast quantity of pizza and Chinese food are depleted. The girl is an avid listener. Barton says little, but he and Romanoff have a few silent interactions that Bucky can’t interpret. He supposes it’s a good indication that her mind is largely intact, at least. Sam and Rhodes do the majority of the talking at first, with Steve adding in his two cents. Once they get onto the subject of Tony Stark, though, Rhodes starts drinking a bit too heavily for his frame. He’s the only one who’s made use of the bottle of whisky, and he’s putting quite a dent in the contents. Everyone else sticks to the various liters of soda and water bottles brought in from the kitchen. 

He stays quiet when they start talking about the ‘good old days’ of the Avengers. Even the witch starts bringing up stories, though sparingly and with melancholy little smiles when she mentions her android lover. Steve is happily taking part, but Bucky is hardly going to bring up that time he ripped a steering wheel out of Sam’s hands through the roof of a moving car or nearly beat Captain America to death or caused a rift that turned half of the heroes into fugitives. Reminding everyone that he once put a bullet in Romanoff seems like a particularly bad idea. 

Romanoff doesn’t say much either - just little bursts of information, mostly when pressed by Sam. She says enough to make it clear that she knows the stories they’re all telling and the people in them, but she seems light on details. It’s hard to tell what she does or doesn’t know - she’s as slippery as an eel in conversation and her face gives nothing away. Even if she wasn’t nigh impossible to pin down, Steve is intentionally covering for her; every time Sam seems to have her cornered, the punk drops in a comment or twists the conversation down some random anecdotal path. Sam notices for sure, and Hawkeye seems to catch on as well. The others are oblivious as far as Bucky can tell. 

Just when the conversational chess is really ramping up, the Hulk appears in the door and cheerfully says, “Hey, everyone.” He maneuvers through the doorway with a canvas sack dangling from his usable hand, displaying a frankly surprising amount of flexibility and muscle control. It sounds like there are several bottles of liquid in the bag. “Why aren’t you guys eating in the cafeteria?”

Putting his drink down, Sam replies, "Too empty. Everything go okay?"

"Yep. I dropped off the new suits with the rest of the gear - they're pre-calibrated and locked, so we're all set for tomorrow.” The giant, green man gives the chair beside Bucky a skeptical look before wisely deciding to sit on the floor next to Maximoff, giving her a tight, polite smile. The bag is placed carefully beside his massive thigh. “Pepper was really happy to hear that you’re back, Nat. She sent along some wine and an early Christmas present.” He pulls a slim, black phone from his pocket and passes it to the girl over the table before lifting several wine bottles from his bag and setting them on the table.

Romanoff accepts the device, turning it over curiously. "A phone?" It lights up in her hand, flecks of blue reflecting in her surprised eyes.

"Now you've done it," Rhodes groans theatrically, "putting a phone in the hands of a teenage girl."

Reaching out over the table to claim a large container of fried rice, Banner explains, “Friday suggested it. Your old one was destroyed, but you were on Tony's secure servers, so she was able to create a clone. It's all there: settings, passwords… well, whatever you had saved to your profile while you were living at the compound.”

The girl is alarmingly emotional about the gift. Her lips move soundlessly for a moment before she manages to huskily say, “Thank you.”

"Nat," Hawkeye says, concerned. She looks up at the sound of his voice, whatever she’s feeling slipping under her mask as she pulls together her composure. 

Rhodes has already snagged one of the bottles. He regards the label with satisfaction as he says, “Pinot Noir. Oh, this is some of the good stuff. Too bad Nat can't have any.”

The kid tucks the phone out of sight in the front left pocket of her hoodie, curiously asking, “I can’t?” 

Picking up a bottle, Banner asks, “Why not?” He glances around searchingly. “Do we- We don’t have wine glasses, are we putting this in plastic cups?”

With a little too much relish, the colonel replies, “She’s under twenty-one.” He pours a generous portion of wine into a clean cup and sits back with his prize, grinning at big green. “You don’t have to drink out of a plastic cup if you don’t want to, Bruce. More for the rest of us.”

Bucky snorts in amusement and can’t resist throwing in his own two cents. “Pretty sure Russians get straight vodka in their baby bottles,” he drawls, “so I don’t see-”

Steve interrupts him to earnestly tell the girl, “Don’t, Nat - you’ll stunt your growth.” It’s impossible to tell if he’s joking - even Bucky can’t tell.

Romanoff is giving the punk a skeptical look.

Across the table, the witch bursts out laughing. It’s her first sign of real emotion other than grief, and she waves off the startled looks she receives, saying, “I’m sorry. It’s funny to have this directed at Natasha, of all people.” With a puckish smile, Maximoff teases the teenager, “Now you see what it's like to be the baby of the family.”

Rhodes laughs at that but corrects her, saying, “Check your Avengers history. Nat was the youngest of the original bunch by a pretty wide margin.”

Frowning, Banner objects, "Steve was younger, wasn't he?”

Bucky’s not sure where the guy got that idea; he thought everyone knew about Stevie’s history. Hell, nowadays the guy even looks his age, more or less. Incredulous, he asks, “You kidding? The punk was born in 1918.”

Sam backs him up, helpfully adding, “Yeah, you have to count ice time.”

“Well, if you don’t,” Steve says thoughtfully, “we were almost the same age. I was nearly twenty-seven when I went into the ice and had a few months out before Loki.” Addressing the girl, he prompts, “You were born in November 1984, right? So…”

Barton stops him by cutting in, “Hold on. We just picked that date for her SHIELD paperwork, so don't go counting days. Hell, the year might not even be right.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Sam points out. “Ice time is formative, you can’t ignore it.”

Banner decisively places a half-empty cup of wine beside the girl’s plate and declares, "Here." He dismissively waves off Steve's disapproving look, unimpressed. "Come on, a little bit won't do any harm. You’re not her father, Steve."

“Grandfather,” Bucky corrects in an undertone, raising his beer to his lips. He smirks into the cup as the evil eye is turned on him next.

“He’s old enough to be,” Sam observes, “though that’s a pretty low bar.” Deliberately casual, he comments, “Hell, you could be her grandfather too, Doctor Banner. You’re what, mid-fifties?” The remark seems to fluster the enhanced scientist. Turning to Romanoff, Sam asks, “How old are you, exactly?”

The Black Widow has been watching the back-and-forth with interest, perfectly content to let the others interact while she observes. When everyone pauses to hear her answer, she replies, “Fifteen, I think.” She samples the wine and makes a little face. Putting the cup beside her plate, she reaches for the water and clarifies, “It’s hard to be sure, but I think I was more developed at sixteen.”

Fifteen. Yeah, that sounds about right. Fifteen and the memory of her at this age teases at the edges of his battered, scorched brain. Maybe, probably, he hurt this girl once. But when she mentions being sixteen and ‘ _more developed_ ', there’s another prickle. He does not want to know what’s behind that door, doesn’t need another awful memory to contrast with Steve’s goddamn pictures. Bucky sets his beer aside and announces, “Okay, it’s almost nine. Come on, Steve, we’ve still got a drive ahead of us.”

The colonel snickers tipsily. "Priceless,” he says. “Hey, if it’s too late for senior citizens, should we send the 'baby' to bed, too?"

Steve looks nettled, but Barton speaks first, grinning in a particularly ruthless way as he retorts, “I’d love to see you try and enforce bedtime, Rhodes. You're going to need one hell of a lullaby."

Clearly more amused than upset, Romanoff sarcastically drawls, “I’m so looking forward to hearing these jokes until I’m eighteen again.”

“Oh no,” Maximoff says brightly. There’s more life in her eyes than Bucky has seen since they all came back from oblivion. Somewhere between sympathy and teasing, she tells the girl, “Trust me, being eighteen will not help. Nor twenty, for that matter.” 

“Don’t worry, kid,” Steve tosses in, adding to the gentle razzing. “You’ll grow out of it in a decade or so.” He starts gathering himself to get up, bracing his hands on the arms of his chair and setting his feet.

Romanoff rolls her eyes and stands in tandem with Steve. As he opens his arms, she pushes her chair back so she can step into his embrace. Bucky watches carefully in case of the admittedly unlikely event that she tries to slip a knife between his friend’s ribs, but the girl just hugs Stevie back with every appearance of contentment. The old man looks like he’s never been happier. He smiles down at the tousled red hair laid against his chest, every inch the proud grandpa.

Across the table, Sam and Maximoff wear pleased, soppy looks like what they’re seeing is cute. _Gross_. Barton at least has the decency to maintain a blank expression and Rhodes is looking numbly down at his cup. Banner seems hurt, oddly enough.

Bucky schools his face into neutrality as the hug ends. No point in inviting a lecture. He pastes on a polite smile for Romanoff, who just blinks at him in confusion, and mutters polite goodbyes to the rest of the group. Steve takes longer, needing to shake everyone’s hands and make promises to return the next day. He extracts a promise from Sam and Rhodes to let him know when Romanoff’s mission is done, and then finally, they can leave.

It’s only when they get outside, into the night air, that he realizes he forgot to make Steve grab an extra sweater at the apartment.

***

_Sam_

Except for Bruce, almost everyone’s done eating after the super soldiers depart. Nat’s still working on clearing her plate, but she is a teenager, after all. Presumably, she’s a growing girl. Sam covertly watches her taking delicate bites of cold pizza interspersed with sips of wine. She seems to be warming up to the taste of alcohol again, and he wonders whether it’s different with a fresh set of taste buds.

Conversation slows without Steve to help drive it. Barton and Wanda are both pretty quiet, and Nat seems determined to be a spectator. That leaves Sam, Rhodey, and Bruce. They don’t have a lot of stories in common between them - Bruce left Earth just before Sam and Rhodey became full-fledged Avengers. Then there was the mess with the Sokovia Accords and the Decimation. They bounce a couple more stories back and forth before they run out of safe, funny anecdotes, and then Sam sits back, regarding the empty containers scattered across the table with mild distaste. It’s all going to need to be cleaned up before he can go to bed.

“What do you suppose Cap got up to in that other timeline?” Rhodey muses a little fuzzily, running a finger along the rim of his wine cup. He’s drinking more than usual, though not _too_ much… not yet. Still, he has a mission in the morning, and if he doesn’t stop on his own soon, Sam is going to have to say something.

“I didn’t ask,” Bruce admits. “It wouldn’t have had any effect on our history, so he could have gotten up to anything.”

“Hmm.” Rhodey takes a drink. “Bet he told Barnes.”

“Sure,” Sam agrees easily. “The guy’s been his best friend since 1920-ever.” He half-stands to grab a couple of water bottles, keeping one for himself and placing the other between himself and the colonel. After a moment, Rhodey sighs and pulls it closer to crack it open.

“Think it was weird?” Hawkeye asks casually, pointedly not watching the water bottle exchange. “Going back to the forties after living with cell phones and GPS?”

“He’d have missed the internet for sure,” Sam agrees. “Of course, when it came around, he’d know what to invest in. Probably set up a nice retirement for him and the missus.”

“Oh, the _missus_ ,” Rhodey drawls. “That’s right - he had a girl back in the war. The one in his compass.”

“Peggy Carter,” Nat supplies. She’s been doing that all night - throwing in a name or a location, but little more. The way she’s been listening to the stories, though, like she’s soaking it all up and can’t get enough… Well, he’s pretty sure there’s something wrong with her memory, but it’s hard to tell how bad the damage is when she’s not sharing. Sam can’t decide if it’s better to bring it up, now that Steve’s not around to shield her, or let her come to them on her own.

“Right,” Rhodey says. “Think she’s the one he married? I know we all saw the ring.”

Sam shrugs. “He wouldn’t say.”

“His business,” Barton says brusquely. “Like Banner says, whatever Rogers did, it’s got nothing to do with this world. It’s a whole ‘nother timeline.” He’s frowning at nothing in particular, arms folded on the table.

“I still can’t believe that you travelled through time to bring us back,” Wanda muses softly, eyes darting around the room at the people who did the travelling. Sam can’t decide if she’s happy about being brought back or not, but there’s warmth in the way she says it.

“Well,” Rhodey says, smiling at her to take the sting out of his words as he replies, “Once Lang presented the idea and Tony figured out the mechanics, we had to try. That’s what heroes do, right?”

Quietly, Natasha murmurs, “Whatever it takes...” The kid almost looks like she’s in a trance, but she snaps out of it quickly, taking another bite of pizza.

The other participants in the time heist look distinctly uncomfortable. The reminder that there was a price paid for undoing the Snap - Stark’s death, Nat’s whole situation - kind of brings the room down. Sam is about to suggest that it’s time to call it a night and demand help with clean-up when Hulk speaks.

“Nat,” Banner calls gently, drawing her attention. Carefully, as if trying not to spook a skittish animal, he ventures, “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to, but if it’s not too hard… Nat, what was it like when you-” Clint shifts sharply in his chair and the water bottle crackles in Rhodey’s hand. Banner amends his phrasing, asking, “What happened to you after you fell?”

It’s like the air’s been sucked out of the room. All eyes are on Nat, but Sam shoots quick glances at the others to gauge their reactions. Everyone is cautious, curious, poised to jump in if the girl looks distressed. Barton looks like he’s ready to attack Bruce.

Nat’s expression is perfectly composed. She keeps her eyes on her plate for a long moment, still chewing her last mouthful. Swallowing, she drinks the last of her wine and puts down the half-eaten slice. As she begins to wipe her hands with a napkin, she looks up and says, “It was fast.” She’s said that before, seems to want to emphasize that she didn’t suffer when she died. Calmly, she continues, “I was falling, and then I woke up in the garden. The other sacrifices were there, and they explained that we were inside the Soul Stone. As far as I know, that’s true.”

Surprised, Sam sits forward and asks, “So it wasn’t heaven, like Steve thought? You were trapped inside the stone?”

Nat shrugs like it’s no big deal and replies, “The price was a soul, not a life. Of course it kept us.”

It’s obvious, when she says it like that. Sam knows that his face shows how disturbing that sounds to him. Barton looks like he’s carved out of ice, pale and stiff. Wanda’s dismayed, Rhodey blank, and Bruce shakes his head slowly. It’s one thing for Nat to have died, but for her _soul_ to have been kept as some kind of prize - a captive, a hostage… They never even considered trying to save her. If she hadn’t been released by Thanos destroying the stones or whatever, how long would she have been stuck in there? How long would she have waited for a rescue that never would have come?

Noticing their unease, the girl quickly says, “But it was nice. The garden was really… pleasant, I guess. Beautiful, peaceful, safe. It made-” She breaks off and a flicker of nervousness crosses her face. Sam’s not sure he would have caught it if he didn’t know her so well. Clint and Wanda see it too, he thinks, but he’s not sure about the others. More confidently, Nat ventures, “Baldur had a theory that the stone had some awareness, and it was trying to be kind.”

“Baldur,” Rhodey repeats, frowning pensively. “The Asgardian kid, right?”

Nat’s eyes narrow just a little, and she sounds almost reproachful as she replies, “Yeah. He was in the garden longer than anyone else who could talk about it. I learned a lot from him, and he’s a good friend.” 

Bruce picks up on the change in tone. He softly muses, "I hadn’t realized... I guess from our point of view, you were gone a couple weeks, but for you it was almost four years.”

The girl shifts slightly in her seat. “It felt like more,” she says, a little stilted. Glancing at Clint, she actually looks _guilty_ as she admits, “A lot more.”

Sam furrows his brow and straightens in his chair, suddenly alert. That’s the ‘don’t be mad’ expression and the ‘so I probably should have mentioned’ voice. In the past, when Nat looked and sounded like that, the news that came next was never anything good. Usually it led to running firefights and Steve’s disappointed face and crossing borders on moonless nights while dressed all in black.

Warily, Barton asks, “How long?”

“It’s hard to explain,” Natasha stalls, clearly uncomfortable. “Time didn’t exist in the garden. The only way to judge how long we were in there was when someone visited the altar, and that had nothing to do with how long it _felt_. When Steve returned the stone, I thought I’d been there for a couple of years already.”

That can’t be right. Cap said-

Bruce is unsurprisingly quicker on the math, gently countering, “Nat, Steve went over this with us last night. He returned the stone only a few hours after Clint took it. That would be… That would mean you were trapped for _millennia_.”

“No,” Natasha says, shaking her head decisively. “You’re assuming that there was consistency, like real time. It was just…” She pauses to find the right way of describing it, gesturing vaguely as she goes with, “...moments, all strung together. Sometimes we’d spar for what felt like days and run into the- into the same group of kids three or four times and they'd still be telling the same story. Everything just... flowed. If you asked, some of the others might have said that their whole time inside was like a long summer.” The girl looks anxious as she admits, “For me, there were enough _moments_ for a few hundred years.”

“Centuries,” Wanda summarizes, her expression blank. Sam gives her a furtive glance, but there’s no hint of red in her eyes or around her fingers. She looks calm, almost numb. “What did you do?”

Shrugging, she recites, “Explored, talked, sparred, played with the kids…” Nat’s eyes soften as she gets lost for a moment in a happy reminiscence. Smiling sadly, she wistfully summarizes, “We had fun.”

“‘Fun’,” Rhodey echoes disbelievingly.

All at once, everything makes sense. “That’s why your memory’s shot,” Sam blurts out. “That’s why you can’t remember…” He falls back in his chair, running a hand over the top of his head as he blows out a shaking breath. Hundreds of years of captivity. No wonder she didn’t realize that she’d gotten younger - it probably happened so slowly that she didn’t notice. She keeps mentioning being with other children in the stone - did they all used to be adults? God, he’s seen what being a prisoner can do to people in a few months or years - what about _centuries_? All he feels is horror as he slowly realizes that Nat doesn’t even resent her imprisonment anymore. Everything she says about it is positive. She thinks the stone was ‘ _trying to be kind_ ’! Does she miss the garden? Being dead? Oh god… what if she wants to go back?

Nat sort of caves in on herself like - damn, there’s no way around it - like a kid afraid of being in trouble. Looking miserable and so damn young it hurts, she quietly apologizes, “Sorry.”

Sam wonders how much of a difference it would have made if they’d somehow managed to pull her out sooner. If Steve had freed her when he returned the stone or if they’d just studied the thing before writing her off. Could they have saved the Natasha Romanoff he knew if they’d _tried_?

Barton stands abruptly, shoving his chair back and announcing, “It’s a clear night.” His eyes bore into the girl, bright with something unidentifiable. Rigidly controlled, he requests, “Nat. You want to go up on the roof?” 

Subdued, she nods. Her eyes stay downcast as Nat rises and lets the archer usher her out of the room.

It’s quiet for a moment, no one quite sure what to say. Wanda is nodding to herself, as if she was expecting what just happened. Rhodey seems stunned and Bruce looks heartbroken.

“She remembered me, though,” Sam says slowly, trying to work out what to do with this revelation. The others look at him, waiting for more. “What she said, that it wasn’t like real time… That has to be right, because the moment Nat saw me, she knew who I was. She was happy I wasn’t dead. She shouldn’t remember _anyone_ after hundreds of years, but she knew me right away.” There’s comfort in that, and Sam has seen enough to know that she isn’t crazy, and she isn’t a completely different person. She did come back home, and she’s trying to save the other survivors - that has to mean something.

“Barton, too,” Rhodey says numbly. “The way she was when she saw him...”

“Me too,” Wanda agrees. “She remembered not to touch me. And about Vis…” She pauses for a moment, visibly swallowing back her pain. Her eyes are on the table, but she’s seeing something else. “Changed,” she murmurs, “but the same.” Gaze snapping up, she urgently says, “Sam.” When he meets her eyes, she gravely tells him, “Sam, Natasha is a child.” 

Confused, he says, “Yeah, I know. She’s fifteen.”

Wanda shakes her head sharply, red wisps sparking between her fingers. Reining in her powers, she insists, “No, she is a _child_. It isn’t just on the outside. I touched the surface of her mind earlier. She’s…” Making a circling motion with her hand as she searches for the correct word, she settles on, “innocent.”

“That is not a word I would associate with the Black Widow,” Rhodey says in a low voice. He doesn’t look like he doubts Wanda, though. He’s nodding slowly, like the pieces are coming together in his head.

Under his breath, Bruce forlornly murmurs, “She’s not a monster anymore.” Sam almost doesn’t catch it, would think that he heard wrong if it weren’t for the way Wanda recoils.

“Nat was _never_ a monster,” Sam counters vehemently. She wasn’t, much as other people tried to turn her into one. Banner should know better. Of all people, he should know better.

Startled, Bruce looks up and guiltily says, “No, of course not. Sorry, I was… thinking of something else.”

“What are we gonna do?” Rhodey demands. “Sam. If she’s a kid for real, we can’t let her go back to Vormir.”

“No, we stick with the plan,” Sam says firmly. Barton was right earlier, when he refused to pressure the kid to stay on the sidelines. Looking around at the others, he reminds them, “She’s still Nat - she’s not gonna give up on saving the people she spent hundreds of years imprisoned with. We’ve already got contingencies in place to make sure that she’s safe during the rescue. And when that’s done…” There’s going to be so much to figure out, and Barton is going to be at the center of it. Whether the archer likes it or not, he’s the one who Nat trusted to make decisions for her. Sam just has to make sure that he knows he isn’t in it alone - neither of them are. “When it’s done, we’ll find a way to keep her safe.”

***

_Clint_

Once they’re on the roof, Clint can breathe. The open space, the wide field of view, his partner at his side - it settles something in him. The lights are off, and the illumination from the parking lot is minimal. Anyway, it’s a big roof; there’s little chance of them being seen by anyone on the ground. Someone left a raggedy couch and a hodge-podge of lawn chairs laid out in a loose arrangement, and he wonders how many nights the teenage residents spent sky-watching. He pauses by the largest piece of furniture, pleased to find that it has a water-proof, washable cover. 

She walks past the couch and out into the middle of the roof, her eyes fixed on the sky. “Stars,” Nat breathes, awed. “I forgot about stars.” 

Wincing, he wonders how long it took for her to forget _stars_. Was it in the first hundred years? The second? Tired and sad, he settles onto the couch and tips his head back. It’s a nice sky; there are no clouds and only a thin sliver of moon. The resort is far enough from the city for there to be an impressive collection of stars against the pitch black void of space. It’s beautiful, and all he feels is empty. “It wasn’t the same, looking at them after…” He swallows, unable to finish, and she looks to him in concern. Clint shrugs and tries to smile as he offers, “I’ll have to take you camping in Montana one of these days. It’ll blow your mind.”

Even in jeans and a baggy hoodie, Natasha is ethereal in the starlight. She’s like something from a dream. “I’d like that,” she says softly.

They stare at each other, the same look they’ve shared dozens of times in tight spots, when they had to be on the same page because all they had was each other. Gently, he says, “Talk to me, Nat.”

She studies him for a moment, seemingly lost in thought. “It's strange,” she muses wistfully. “The people who were blipped, they came back the same as when they disappeared, not even realizing that any time had passed. I spent such a long time in the garden. I met people, learned things, had a life. An afterlife, I guess. Everything is so unfamiliar." She shrugs helplessly and confesses, "You’re the only one I’ve known without having to think about it. It took me a few seconds to recognize _Bruce_.”

That’s worrying; Bruce is pretty distinctive. But she recognized Clint, even after centuries, and maybe that means something - she met him earliest, closer to the age she’s been reduced to. He forces confidence into his voice as he assures her, "It’ll come back. You had some trouble at dinner, but you are recognizing people and remembering things with a little help, right?”

“I guess,” Nat says doubtfully. She’s quiet for a while, pondering his words or maybe trying to put together some of those faded memories. After a bit, her posture straightens and her voice firms as she asks, “So, speaking of Bruce and remembering things, what’s up with him? That comment Sam made about him being my grandfather... It seemed like he was making a point. And the way Bruce looks at me...”

He’s already considering ways to kill the Hulk as he sits forward and urgently says, “If Bruce is making you uncomfortable-”

Quickly, she says, "No, he hasn't been creepy.” She half-shrugs, explaining, “It's like he’s sad. Like he still misses me even though I'm back."

“Ahhh.” He sits back slowly, raising a hand to scratch at the short hair on the back of his head. It’s not too hard to figure out why Bruce might be sad, especially if she’s confused enough to ask. Resigning himself to an awkward conversation, he admits, "Well you two did sort of have a thing. It was right before he disappeared during the disaster in Sokovia. From what I understand, it was brief but kind of intense." 

Nat’s eyes widen and she makes the strangest face, something between horror and disbelief. She tugs at the hem of her shirt, a nervous gesture that makes his brow start to furrow, and uneasily asks, “How would that even work?”

For a moment, he doesn’t get it. His brain is blissfully blank as he fails to comprehend what she means. Then, in a moment that feels like discovering half a worm in an apple, Clint realizes that she’s referring to sex. The _logistics_ of sex between _Nat_ and _Banner_. No - Nat and the _Hulk_. The idea is so ludicrous that it startles a barking laugh out of him and he presses both hands to his face as if it might be possible to block out the horrible, horrible image she’s conjured in his head. “Oh god,” he groans, “I suddenly need that brain bleach Cooper’s always talking about.” It’s times like this that he wishes he wasn’t so visually oriented. When he’s sure he can control himself, he drops his hands and carefully explains, “Bruce was a hell of a lot smaller and pinker at the time. He didn’t go green 24/7 until years later, so it was kind of odd, but not _that_ odd. Also, I’m pretty sure that it was more what-could-have-been than actual relationship.” 

Her relief is obvious as she exhales, “Oh.”

Bemused and concerned, he asks, “You don’t remember this at all?”

“No,” Natasha murmurs, shaking her head. “Do you think I really felt something for him?”

That’s hard to say, considering that Clint found out about it in the middle of the Ultron debacle, which was also when the ‘relationship’ ended. He knows Natasha, though, and he ventures, “I think you might have wanted to. The Hulk was an unstoppable force, but Bruce is basically a nerdy teddy bear. Maybe you thought he was safe. I’m honestly not sure; we didn't exactly talk about feelings.” Sighing, he leans back on the couch and lets his head fall back. The starry void looms above, ready to suck him in. “Anyway, you guys were on good terms when we all got back together again, and he was pretty broken up when you- when we thought you weren't coming back."

“I feel kind of bad for not remembering,” she admits. Then, almost plaintive, she asks, "Clint, you know I love you, right?"

Stunned, he turns his head to gape at her. The idea of Nat having a crush on him would be horrifying even if she wasn’t currently fifteen, but saying it out loud has got to be some kind of violation of their unspoken rules. Didn’t he just tell her that they don’t talk about feelings? And he’s not- he’s- And Laura!

Reading his mind, Nat immediately gives him a scornful look and chides, “Not like _that_ , Barton. Don't be weird.”

Oh thank god. Not that he’s thrilled about the topic even if she only means buddy-love. Trying to put her off, he says, “Jesus, Nat. Are you seriously getting _mushy_ on me?” He’s trying for teasing, but he’s pretty sure it comes out wrong.

She frowns, seeming puzzled by his reaction. “You love me, too,” she says reproachfully, stating it like it’s an unequivocal fact. “The sacrifice wouldn’t have worked if you didn’t.”

He freezes as his blood goes cold. Breathing out carefully, he numbly echoes, “Wouldn’t have worked...?” 

“The Keeper wasn’t lying when he said you had to give up ‘that which you love most’,” Natasha explains. “You had to love me more than anything for the sacrifice to count. If you didn’t, you wouldn’t have gotten the stone when I fell.” 

The red, floaty guy did say that, but Clint hadn’t taken the ‘love’ thing that seriously. A soul for a soul, that was the important part. Thanos got the Soul Stone, and there’s no way that shithead had the slightest clue what it felt like to really love someone. Except… Nat sounds like she’s sure, and it was Thanos’ daughter who he sacrificed. Maybe he did love Gamora more than any other _person_ , but his insanity was stronger. He stares at Natasha as his thoughts race and guilt twists in his gut.

A little uncertainly, Nat continues, “So… It’s a good thing it was us on Vormir. I don’t think I ever loved anyone nearly as much as you, and with Laura and the kids gone, I guess you-”

Yeah. He did love Natasha more than anything. After he lost his family, he’d thought his heart was hollowed out and dead. All he had left was pain. He ran, mostly from himself, and ignored and abandoned Nat until it was too late. When he thought of her, it was only to wonder if she’d be the one to eventually put him down. It was only when his best friend was hanging over hundreds of feet of empty space, gently telling him to let her go, that he realized that his heart was still alive. It could still scream, and beg, and break, and it did. Now here she is, freshly back from the dead, telling him that her sacrifice only counted because _in that one moment_ , Clint couldn’t bear to lose her, not even for his dead kids. An inhuman sound tears out of him.

Nat looks horrified. "I'm sorry, I didn't-”

“You used to say ‘love is for children’,” he interrupts through a raw throat, trying to gather his scattered thoughts. “You never once in your entire life told anyone you loved them.” He knew that she felt it, though. The kids knew, Laura knew. But Nat couldn’t say it - the lesson was so ingrained that it took her years to feel it without panicking, even longer to show it. And now...

“I don’t remember believing that,” Natasha admits, all wide eyes and heartfelt sincerity. “It feels like I always loved you. Like you really are my brother.” She shrugs self-consciously and weakly jokes, “I guess it doesn’t matter anyway, since I’m a child now.”

Clint doesn’t flinch, even though she’s killing him. The most guarded person he ever met is standing in front of him with her defenses shredded, spilling her heart out because a cosmic force turned her inside out and she doesn’t know any better. His eyes burn, and he feels the first hot tears run down his face. This is the price she paid for him.

Remorsefully, Natasha softly says, “I really didn’t mean to make you cry.”

 _Fuck it_. All he’s doing is upsetting her. “Shut up and get over here,” he says, voice rough with emotion. She doesn’t even hesitate, obediently dropping down beside him on the couch, still looking concerned. He reaches out and pulls her against his side, some tiny part of him still surprised that he doesn’t pull back a stump. Natasha is pliant and trusting, causing the lump in his throat to thicken as he grumbles, “You’re such a brat.”

Whatever else she’s lost, Nat still knows when he’s full of shit. She relaxes into him, smugly observing, “You like it.”

“Hell no,” he insists, scoffing. Tipping his head back against the couch, he looks up at the stars and breathes out. The worst of the tension seeps out of him. He wouldn’t hesitate to say it to Laura and the kids, and the rules have changed. Voice soft but sure, he tells her, “I do love you, Nat.” _So much that it hurts_.

Natasha happily snuggles closer, small enough to be comfortably tucked under his arm and apparently now a fan of cuddling. “I know,” she replies.

He laughs for real, though the sound is a little ragged, and he feels… lighter. Shattered, but lighter. Even knowing that it’s probably unintentional, Nat making a Star Wars reference in the middle of a touching moment is just hilarious.

Nat nudges him in the ribs and curiously asks, “Hey, are you okay?”

“Yeah,” he assures her, “just, y’know, Star Wars reference.”

“What Star Wars?”

“The movies,” he replies, glancing down at her. She tilts her head against his arm to meet his gaze, clearly puzzled, and he emphasizes, “ _Star Wars_. Luke Skywalker, Darth Vader, Princess Leia… Star Wars?”

She’s clearly at a loss. Perplexed, she apologizes, “Sorry, I don’t think I remember that.”

“That’s…” He was the one to show her the original trilogy, back when she was new to SHIELD and they were still trying to figure each other out. He’s not sure he’d call it a bonding moment, but it’s strange to think that the memory is only his now. It’s depressing, but Nat starts to react to his change in mood and he pushes through it. She needs him to keep it together. Tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, he promises, “No, that’s okay. I’ll show you. When we’re done with your mission, we’ll watch them again.” 

Natasha regards him with nothing but trust and love in her eyes as she agrees, “Okay.”

It’s going to be okay. There will probably be other things she’s lost, but they’ll figure it out. He’ll take her back to the farm, where it’s safe, and teach her the important stuff and take care of her until she can fend for herself. Laura will make sure he doesn’t screw up too badly.

Yeah, everything’s going to be fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a long chapter! I'm not sure whether to flex or apologize :) Hopefully it was worth the wait.
> 
> Chapter 4 will also be a long one, so it will be a couple of weeks at least before it's ready. Coming next time: more sad Clint, the mission to Vormir, some Guardians of the Galaxy, and only a tiny bit of Star Wars.


	4. Forsaken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The events of Sunday, 11/19/2023 (Part One)

_Sunday, 11/19/2023 - Clint_

Tired. He’s so fucking tired. There’s no glowing red numbers to tell him the time, but it can’t be much past two in the morning. Though he’s managed a couple of broken hours of rest amidst the tossing and turning, he knows that trying for more is futile. Sleep is not going to come. It’s just him and the darkness, waiting until dawn. He itches to call Laura. Just hearing her voice would help, and maybe she could check on the kids to be safe. 

No, that’s insane. He’s not waking Laura up in the middle of the night again, not when she’s finally free of his bullshit and able to get some sleep. Laura is fine. The kids are fine. He has to believe that. 

Shoving the sheets off, Clint sits up on the edge of the bed, bows his head and runs a hand through his hair. He feels more grounded with his soles flat on the cool wooden floor, but also unsettled and restless. He reaches for the bedside table, finding his cell phone and squinting as the dim light obliterates his nightvision. 2:31 AM. 1:31 in Iowa. Too late, too early. He opens the gallery and tries to content himself with looking through the newer pictures on his phone, the ones that didn't exist before the Decimation. The kids in Iowa, two years older than the last time they lived in that house, but still five years younger than they should be. 

As he mindlessly flips from image to image, it occurs to him that he could check on Natasha. _Cooper reading._ She’s right next door, and if he’s quiet and careful, she might just keep sleeping peacefully while he takes a quick peek. _Lila laughing._ Sure, there’s no way he could creep up on Nat before she died, even in her sleep, but now... Now he’s not sure. _Nate making a face._ He could check. 

Clint freezes on a picture of his wife. Laura’s looking out at him, brown eyes crinkled up with affection, smiling but tired. She still sees a good man in her husband, but here he is thinking of taking advantage of Nat’s vulnerability to make himself feel better. Jesus, is he really that far gone? 

Standing and lurching away from the bed, he grabs a pair of sweatpants and drags them on, shoving his phone into the right-side pocket. He makes his way to the door blindly and escapes into the dimly lit hallway, not even looking at Nat’s door as he strides away from the dorms and heads for the kitchen. His footsteps are silent, and other than the faint hum of the heat in the vents, there’s no other sound. Everyone else is asleep. 

He’s calm before he even makes it to the ground floor. The stifled, anxious feeling fades as he descends the stairs into the lobby, a familiar weariness settling back into his bones. He eyes one of the couches as he passes, wondering if he could manage to catch another hour if he tried sleeping on something other than a bed. But no, the front door is right there, and all the damn glass - the paranoia would have him squirming half a second after he closed his eyes. He continues on, the night-time lighting of the complex making the place seem alien and deserted. Too much space, and too quiet. He misses the farm, the way the old house seems to breathe along with the people sleeping inside. 

The cafeteria is full-on eerie, only lit with emergency lights and the blue-white glow of the computers, which are still running simulations of some kind. The shifting illumination makes the cables that snake across the floor look like they’re moving, though the illusion fades as Clint gets closer. He picks his way through carefully as he crosses the room to reach his goal. 

The swinging door opens into a large kitchen, all the fixtures big and metal and industrial. It’s a space designed to feed a hundred people at a time, minimum. There’s a walk-in refrigerator, a huge pantry, two big stoves, a fry station, and yards of gleaming metal countertops. Incongruously, someone has put a semi-fancy, wooden dining room table right in the middle of the space and surrounded it with sturdy-looking but cheap stools. Clint doesn’t have to search for a light switch, because someone beat him to it. 

Apparently, not everyone in the building is asleep. Wanda looks up from a cup of tea as he enters, her lips curving in a wan smile of welcome. It’s pretty clear that unlike him, she didn’t just crawl out of bed. She’s dressed for comfort and her makeup has been removed, but her black leggings and tank top are unwrinkled under her open, wine-colored robe, her long hair is untousled, and she’s still wearing more jewelry than seems practical for sleeping. 

Clint is suddenly self-conscious about his own dishevelled appearance - barefoot and shirtless, wearing only an old pair of gray sweatpants. “Morning,” he mumbles, embarrassed. 

“Morning,” Wanda echoes. She nods to the bright red kettle on the stove and offers, “There’s more hot water, if you want tea or hot chocolate.” 

He’s never been a fan of tea, but a warm drink is exactly what he needs. “Chocolate?” 

Wanda flicks her wrist and a metal cabinet across the room opens soundlessly. 

“Thanks,” he murmurs, shambling in that direction. Only about half the lights are on, but the box is front-and center, full of convenient envelopes of powdered hot chocolate. It’s nothing near as good as what he would have at home, but better than tea. He closes the cabinet and turns back with his prize in hand, finding a white mug and spoon already sitting on the counter near the stove. “Thanks again.” 

Wanda hums a quiet acknowledgement, and then the only sounds are the tearing of the envelope, the pouring water, and the clink of the spoon against the ceramic. The first sip is almost too hot, but it warms his insides like he needs. It tastes pretty good, too, for instant. Cradling the hot mug, Clint puts his back to the counter and leans against it. Wanda is watching him - not quite staring, but certainly checking out his tattoos and the new scars he’s acquired in the last five years. 

“Can’t sleep?” he asks. It’s inane, but he’d rather have a conversation than sit in silence. It’s better not to let his mind drift. 

“No,” she says, giving him a wry look. _Obviously_ , she doesn’t say. Shrugging gracefully, she explains, “There are too many high emotions. Almost no one is sleeping well.” 

Almost no one, huh? Well, he supposes he wasn’t the only one who got a bomb dropped on them that night. “Yeah, that makes sense. Sorry that you have to deal with that.” He takes a deeper drink, savoring the heat. 

Wanda shrugs again, dismissive. “It is what it is,” she says philosophically. “I can’t claim that I didn’t ask for this.” 

That’s not exactly untrue, but he doubts that telepathy-induced insomnia was on her mind when she volunteered to be given super-powers. He also doubts that her abilities are the only reason for her lack of sleep; from what he hears, she’s been living in New York. There’s plenty of high emotions in the city, and she doesn’t show any obvious signs of long-term deprivation. No, this is new for her. Sighing, Clint pushes off the counter and crosses to the table, pulling out the stool across from Wanda. As he sits, he asks, “How have you been doing, kid? You were quiet during dinner.” 

“Well enough,” she replies vaguely. Clearly not too eager to talk about whatever’s going on with her, she turns the conversation back on him, instead. “And you? You’re not sleeping either.” Tilting her head, she observes, “You were distressed when you were on the roof with Natasha.” 

Startled and feeling exposed, he blurts out, “You were listening?” 

Wanda’s brow creases. “I tried not to ‘listen’,” she says, hurt and slightly defensive. “I can’t block everything, and you were very upset.” Imploring, she insists, “You know that I wouldn’t-” 

“No, sorry,” Clint interrupts. “I didn’t mean it like…” He sighs. God, he’s tired. “I know you can’t block everything. Sorry.” He rubs a hand over his face, tries to organize his thoughts. He doesn’t want to talk about his ‘distress’. There’s just so much in his head. Old Steve, young Nat, memories and mind fuckery, life and death and what the hell is he supposed to do now? Shooting blind, he asks, “What do you think of Nat? I’m sure you read something from her in the lobby earlier.” 

“Enough to know that she _is_ Nat,” Wanda says, eyeing him with concern. “And…” She hesitates, taking a sip of her tea. Her next words are contemplative and she stares into space as if lost in thought. “If people have a core,” she ventures slowly, “an essence - something that is there in childhood and stays through their whole life - Natasha still has that. It’s the chains of her past that are gone. The weight, the pain. The shadows have been chased away, and light remains.” 

That’s very poetic, but he’s pretty sure she’s missing the point. Nat earned her shadows and chains. Without them… “You make it sound like what happened to her is a good thing,” he says bitterly. 

Gentle and earnest, she asks, “Are you so sure that it is only a bad thing?” 

“Yes!” Why doesn’t she see? Maybe because Wanda’s never had her mind turned inside out like Clint has. Like Nat had, way too often. Needing her to understand, he tries to explain, “The stone took Natasha apart at the seams. She had to fight to hold onto her memories, and she lost so damn much. I’ve known Nat for years, and she’s… Jesus, Wanda, she’s like a kid - not even the kid she was, but a real kid. She’s _helpless_. You honestly think that Nat would ever want to be helpless again after everything she’s been through?” 

She watches him rant, and though she looks sympathetic, she shakes her head when he’s done. “I think that if Nat could not protect herself, she would find comfort in knowing that the people she loved would guard her from harm,” Wanda replies. “And we will, as much as we can. But also, I don’t think that Natasha is ‘helpless’.” 

“She told me…” He chokes on the confession, unable to repeat the words out loud, even though they weren’t said in confidence. Nat probably wouldn’t care if he shares _now_ , but she would have _before_ , and Wanda won’t understand the problem, anyway. “I just…” He fumbles for what to say and can only come up with, “I can’t see any good in this.” 

“Clint,” Wanda says carefully, “I know these five years have been hard, but I think you need to remember that you have many reasons to be happy. Natasha’s return should be one of those reasons. Yes, she is different, but she is _alive_.” 

Alive. Clint takes a breath, and realizes: Vision and Nat. Wanda’s parents and Pietro, Clint's wife and kids. They all died, but Wanda has no hope of seeing her family again, while he has somehow managed to get _everyone_ back. And he’s whining to her, and she’s comforting him, and now he’s burning with guilt and shame as he says, “I’m sorry.” 

With a pained smile, Wanda replies, “You have nothing to be sorry for.” 

He laughs - a sharp bark of derision that breaks and breeds in his chest. Nothing’s funny, she’s just so _wrong_ , but he laughs until it hurts, slumping over the table, pressing his forehead into the cool, smooth wood. After a while, the laughter tries to twist into something else. He shoves the thick misery down and away, shoves ‘til he’s just resting his head on the table and breathing slow and even, like the sniper he is. His heart is heavy and still. Sitting up slowly, he fumbles for his drink and drains the lukewarm, grainy chocolate from the mug in one swallow. 

She says nothing. Wanda just looks at him with unbearable sympathy, hands clasped tight around her cup. 

Clint pushes himself upright, exhaustion dragging at his bones. “I should try to get some more shuteye,” he says reluctantly. “You too. Mission in a few hours.” Not waiting for a reply, he pushes away from the table and goes to the sink, rinsing out his mug and leaving it there on the edge to dry. He nods to Wanda, who’s still sitting at the table, and heads for the door. 

She calls out after him softly, her voice hesitant. “Clint?” 

He turns to look back. 

Wanda looks unsure, but offers, “I could help you sleep.” She makes a tentative gesture with one beringed hand, miming using her powers. 

His gut response makes her face pale before he even opens his mouth. He regrets that, a little. “I appreciate the offer,” he replies, “but no.” Turning away and opening the door to leave, he pauses long enough to say, “Good night.” 

“...Good night.” 

*** 

By the time Nat’s shower starts on the opposite side of the wall, Clint has been up for hours. He keeps playing the shitty, mindless phone game, not exactly listening to the water run, but alert for it to stop. When it does, he gets up, shutting down the app and deleting it before heading downstairs. The building is quiet, the halls empty. On his way to the kitchen, he only runs into Dr. Pym, absorbed with his computers in the cafeteria. The old man doesn’t react to his muttered ‘good morning’. Everyone else must be out at the site, setting up. Since no one’s contacted Clint yet and they can’t start without Nat, there should be time for breakfast. 

He clatters around, searching the cabinets to see what’s available to eat. There’s not a lot of fresh food. Bulk snacks like jello and granola bars, the sort of things that are shelf-stable for months, are plentiful. There are leftovers of several kinds of takeout in the fridge, as well as milk, several kinds of juice and soda, and some staples like peanut butter and bread. He finally settles on pop-tarts and tosses two in the toaster. By the time they’re ready, he has a couple of glasses of orange juice poured. Clint scarfs down the first two pop-tarts and chugs one glass of juice while a second pair of pastries are in the toaster for Nat. 

That’s when his cell chimes to indicate an incoming message. It’s from Hope. 

> **Hope:** _On my way to pick up you and Natasha. Ready in 30?_

He replies with an affirmative and slips the phone back into his pocket. When the toaster pops, he’s ready with a plate and napkin, gathering everything up to take back to Nat’s room. Her breakfast has gone cold by the time he passes through the lobby, but at least he tried. Clint doesn’t hear any movement behind her door when he reaches it, so he taps the wood with the toe of his boot a couple of times to get her attention. “Hey,” he calls, “it’s me.” 

The door opens a moment later, and Nat smiles up at him. She’s dressed, thank everything that’s holy, in a shirt, jeans, and a close-fitting, black hoodie. Her hair has been pulled back neatly into a curly ponytail. She looks painfully young. 

“Morning,” he says, offering up the plate and glass. “Brought you breakfast.” 

She steps back, giving him room to come in. “Thanks,” she says appreciatively, taking the plate from him and eyeing the contents with curiosity. “This is…?” 

“Cherry Pop-Tarts,” he replies. At the blank look she gives him, he clarifies, “Toasted pastry full of processed fruit jam. Amazingly, they didn’t have the frosted kind in the kitchen. You-” He stops himself before he tells her that she prefers blueberry. Maybe she still does, but if last night taught him anything, it’s that she’s not going to be exactly the same as before. Shrugging, he says, “Try ‘em. If you’re not a fan, we can go find something else.” 

Nat settles on the bed to eat, balancing the plate easily on her knee as she breaks a corner off of one of the pop-tarts and eats it. She makes an odd face, but she doesn’t object, breaking off another bite. 

Since she’s left him plenty of room, Clint carefully sits beside her and offers the glass. “Orange juice,” he says. “From… oranges.” 

With a lopsided smile, she accepts it. “I think I remember oranges.” 

He returns her smile and waits while she polishes off the pop-tarts piece by piece and finishes the juice. When she’s done, he offers the napkin. "Everyone else is busy ferrying equipment around and getting prepped,” he tells her as she wipes her hands clean of crumbs. “Nothing we need to worry about." With a dismissive wave, he pulls his cell out of his pocket and turns it on. They’ve got some time, so why not use it? "Here, I wanted to show you…" 

He hands Nat the phone, the gallery open to the album of pictures he’s taken since the reversal of the Decimation. Nat exhales, cradling the device in both hands, and stares at Laura’s smiling face for a moment before slowly beginning to scroll through. She’s completely absorbed, lower lip caught between her teeth. While she’s doing that, he moves the plate and glass out of the way, setting them on top of the bedside table. He’s not sure she even notices. 

Feeling awkward in the silence, Clint says, "So you can remember what you're coming back for." 

Natasha doesn’t reply. She’s gone back to the beginning of the album, shifting through more rapidly, but pausing intermittently to study a photo intently before moving on. That little furrow of frustration has appeared between her brows. She must know that he’s showing her Laura and the kids, but there’s no recognition in her eyes. It’s nothing like when she saw him for the first time; she might as well be looking at strangers. 

It scares him, but there’s no way he’s going to let her know that. "Nat, don't worry if you don't recognize them," he says, trying to be calm and comforting. "The pictures are shitty. It'll be different in person." 

She raises her eyes to his, and her uncertainty is uncomfortably obvious. Nat holds out the phone, offering it back to him. "Thank you,” she says sincerely. “We should probably get going." 

*** 

_Valkyrie_

It seems odd that the humans have decided to place their time travel device within eyeshot of the remains of their former home. They obviously aren’t drawing power from some underground source hidden under the ruins, instead using large generators. They’re not using recovered material. Given that their current base of operations reportedly has more than enough room to set up the equipment, the choice of location is puzzling. At the very least, having the means of travelling through time out in the open is clearly a security issue. There are dozens of workers within eyeshot, scrambling around the crater like ants and using heavy machinery to move twisted piles of earth and wreckage. They can’t be unaware of the little camp full of advanced equipment, and must be curious as to the reason for it. 

Well, secrecy is not Valkyrie’s immediate concern, though she remains uneasy about the watchers. No, her task is to see to the safe return of an Asgardian child to the fold, and also to maintain lines of communication and bonds of cooperation with the Avengers. So far, that task is progressing well. She has brought the requested medical staff and found the humans on pace with their predictions of the timeline for the day’s events. With the help of Wanda Maximoff, the healers’ golden tent has gone up easily, and now it’s just a matter of waiting for Thiodvarta and her apprentices to prepare the interior. 

“We’ll be ready shortly,” Val says as she approaches Sam Wilson. “Are you prepared?” 

“Almost,” he replies. The Falcon seems to have taken up the role of leader of the Avengers in the time since Stark’s memorial service. The others defer to him, and he speaks for the group more often than not. Also, he’s carrying Captain America’s repaired shield. Neither Sam nor any of the others mentions the absence of Steve Rogers, so Valkyrie doesn’t ask. “Hope texted a couple minutes ago. Clint and Nat were pretty much ready to go when she went to get them, so they should be here any minute now.” 

She nods, surveying the team Sam has assembled. At his side stands Wanda, who looks ill-prepared for a fight until one notices that her stylish leather boots and jacket are sturdy and likely reinforced. The young woman is quiet and melancholy, but watchful and powerful enough to control almost any situation that might arise. Her presence is a great reassurance. The merged Banner/Hulk works one-handed at the control console with an odd, grim intensity. His right arm is still crippled by the use of the Infinity Stones and shows no visible signs of healing. Even without the use of both arms, though, he’s still one of the most devastating close combat fighters Valkyrie has ever met. War Machine, who prefers to go by ‘Rhodey’, may not be as dangerous as the others, but he’s formidable in his heavy armor. 

Valkyrie wouldn’t say that there are no others she’d rather fight beside, but she’s confident in the skills of everyone present. That is satisfactory, especially in a situation that may not require fighting. 

The sound of a car pulling up distracts her from her thoughts. It’s a small vehicle, red. It parks more than a hundred yards away - near, but not too near, the Avengers’ jet. Three occupants. Good, that will be the Wasp returning with the last two people needed for their endeavor. She glances at Sam for confirmation, tipping her head toward the new arrivals. 

Sam follows her gaze and nods. “Yeah, that’s them.” 

Val makes an acknowledging sound and watches a nondescript human - Hawkeye - and an adolescent girl with bright red hair leave the car and follow Wasp toward their camp. Of the three, only Hope van Dyne is dressed for any sort of combat. The other two are merely in blue jeans and long sleeves, in deference to the cool weather. The younger version of Romanoff moves with uncommon grace for her apparent years, but nothing stands out as truly odd about her. 

“Weird, huh?” Sam asks in a low voice. “Did you know Nat before?” 

“Not well,” Val says. Shrugging as she turns back to the Avengers’ new leader, she adds, “It’s not the strangest thing I’ve seen.” Studying his serious, worried expression and the way his gaze lingers on the unnatural child, she raises a brow. “Are you sure that you want to send her on this mission?” 

Sam frowns in consternation and says, “Nat made the point that the survivors will trust her, and we may not have a lot of time to convince them we’re friendly. She was in real bad shape when she arrived; the others might be just as sick.” 

She nods, apprehensive despite the fact that both Sam and Bruce have already told her that Romanoff described the Asgardian survivor as relatively healthy. Valkyrie prays this is true, especially if the boy is who she believes him to be. The situation is already a political mess; it requires no further complication. 

The newcomers approach and exchange a quick round of good mornings. Val nods to be polite, ignoring the chatter as she watches the body language of her allies. It seems that almost everyone is on good terms, though it’s hard to be sure with Hawkeye, who seems very uncomfortable. Though he doesn’t have a specified role in the plan as she’s heard it, Val takes a moment to appraise the man and doesn’t much like what she sees. He’s suppressing a great deal of agitation and he looks like he hasn’t slept properly in weeks. She’s reminded of Thor, seething with grief and self-hatred in the unpleasant months before he fell fully into his cups. 

“Hi Cap,” Romanoff says, her grin mischievous as she nods at the shield strapped to Sam’s forearm. “Were you waiting on us?” 

Sam shakes his head, but his disquiet subsides slightly in the face of the girl’s good humor. He smiles fondly at her as he replies, “Nah, not really. We’re in hurry up and wait mode. Should be good once we get the go-ahead from the doctors. You ready?” 

“Yes,” Romanoff says, nodding decisively. The girl certainly looks determined, and Valkyrie has the sense that it isn’t the false bravado of a child. The warrior - the Avenger - is still present in her steady, green eyes. 

Hawkeye jerks his head toward the lake and says, “I’m just gonna…” Without finishing his statement, he stalks off in that direction, not looking back. Romanoff follows him with her gaze first, and then, with an apologetic look for Sam and Wanda, chases after him. When Hawkeye notices the girl, he slows to let her catch up, his expression softening as he looks down at her. 

As the odd pair are several meters away and out of earshot, Valkyrie curiously asks, “Were they involved before her death?” 

“What?” Sam seems taken aback. “No! You saw his wife at Stark’s service. Dark-haired lady, they’ve got three kids.” 

She does remember the lady, in fact. “The one who was gone for the last five years?” 

“Nat and Barton weren’t like that,” Rhodey says emphatically, sounding irritated. 

Interested in the vehemence of his response, Val casts a side-eye in his direction which he returns with a flat, unamused glower. 

Hope watches their interaction avidly while Sam awkwardly says, “I’m just going to check on Bruce.” He walks the short distance to the control panel, followed by Wanda. 

Valkyrie raises a brow at Rhodey, who rolls his eyes and looks critically in the direction of Romanoff and Barton. He sees something he doesn’t like, though it’s hard to tell exactly what that is. Hawkeye is merely standing there, while Romanoff surveys her surroundings curiously. 

In the relative quiet, Valkyrie can hear most of the hushed conversation between Sam and Wanda. They’re not really attempting to keep it private, with Banner as close as he is, so she feels no shame about overhearing. 

Adjusting the shield on his arm, Sam mutters, “...second thoughts. ...normal, right?” 

“...faith, Sam.” 

“Yeah, I’m trying.” 

Wanda’s gentle reply is inaudible. 

He sighs. “You’re the one who said… _child_. ... _supposed_ to feel?” 

“...still Natasha,” Wanda says. “Steve... the same.” 

“Yeah... he’s not here.” 

In response, Wanda steps closer, laying a hand on his shieldless arm and lowering her voice further. She speaks quickly and earnestly, and when Sam responds, he is also too quiet to hear. 

With her temporary distraction lost, Valkyrie takes to watching the golden tent. While she knows that impatience helps nothing, she fervently wishes that the blue-robed healers would hurry their pace. The anxiety of the humans is contagious, and the lack of anything to do is becoming frustrating. She tries to go over the seemingly endless list of tasks that need to be done in New Asgard, but it’s merely a reminder of the greater problem that she is trying not to think about. How can she plan for the future while waiting for the rescue of the child whose throne she now occupies? Nothing is certain. 

War Machine’s gray armor becomes sheathed in white as he fiddles with the device on his wrist, apparently doing a last check of his gear. It’s gratifying to see how seriously the soldier treats the undertaking, considering that his partner is not in top form. Finally, Thiodvarta nods to her assistants and approaches Rhodes, a medical scanner held in her hands. It’s almost time to begin. 

*** 

_Clint_

Nat hasn’t even got her catsuit. According to Sam, her uniform stayed adult-sized, so she’s stuck with sneakers, jeans, and a hoodie. No body armor. No one’s offering her any weapons, either. Clint gets that they’re still unsure of her, he does, but the whole situation is making him itch. “You promise to be careful,” he insists, shifting restlessly, “and if anything goes wrong, you’re going to hit the panic button and come right back, right?” 

“Yes, Clint,” Nat says obediently. 

He nods, even though he knows better than to believe her. He keeps his eyes moving, checking the vehicles, the people, the medical tent. He’s not even sure what he’s looking for. Everyone is giving them space, letting him stand on the edge of the mess while they compare notes and make contingency plans for if something goes wrong. Nat should be in the center of the action, but she’s not. Not yet. She will be, though. She’ll climb up on that platform and then- 

Nat moves to stand in front of him, looking up with earnest, worried eyes. “Hey, relax. Look at me, Clint.” Jesus, he doesn’t need her to tell him not to worry. Sighing, he tries to glare at her, but he doubts it’s convincing. Rhodes is starting to come toward them, holding the metal case that contains the extra quantum devices. It’s almost time. “I'll be fine, really,” she insists. “There’s no life on Vormir except for the people we’re there to save. Even if there was, Rhodey isn’t going to let anything happen to me. I’ll be there for a few minutes, nowhere near any danger, and when we get back with my friends, we can all watch your _Star Wars_.” 

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Rhodes objects as he joins them. He’s trying to sound like he’s teasing, but the look he gives Nat is hard to read - maybe pity or concern. “You don’t remember _Star Wars_?” 

Clint tries to play along, smirking at Rhodes and answering, “Nope. She’s a blank slate, Rhodes. Pure as the driven snow. I’m trusting you to keep her untainted. No spoilers.” He’s pretty sure he sounds too serious to fool Nat, but as long as the other man hears what he’s really trying to say, that’s fine. 

Rhodes smiles grimly. “Yeah, of course,” he promises. _Of course I’ll keep her safe_. “As long as you save me a seat on the couch at movie night.” 

“Deal.” _Do a better job than I did._

Nat rolls her eyes at them. Indicating Rhodes’ suitcase, she asks, "Are we ready to go?" 

The humor flees from Rhodes’ features. "Yeah," he replies. "Got the scanner and the gear for the survivors. Here's yours, Nat." His heavy gauntlet gently places a slim white wristband into Nat’s small hand. With a nod for each of them, Rhodes turns to make his way to the platform. 

Natasha shifts a little to watch him go, but her eyes are on Clint as she slips on the wristband. White crawls over her body, covering the clothes that make her look like nothing more than another kid. She’s different in the flexible body armor - older, more herself. When she looks up at him with her solemn, child’s face, he can clearly see the Black Widow analyzing him underneath a layer of honest concern. 

“I know you’ve got this,” he grudgingly admits. “Just…” 

“I’ll be safe,” she says, like it’s a promise. 

He shoves his hands into his pockets, grinning humorlessly. It’s not a promise she can keep; he knows that all too well. His throat aches as he tells her, “I’m counting on it, Nat.” 

Across the clearing, Rhodes disappears from the platform, on his way to Vormir. Nat doesn’t waste any time. With a steadying breath, she walks away. Clint stays where he is, as if his feet were nailed down. He was offered a chance to go, and he said no. 

Natasha climbs the steps. She turns, ready. It isn’t going to end like last time. She’s going to be fine. He has to believe that. 

Nat nods at Sam. 

Bruce begins to call out the countdown. 

As Clint stares, unable to blink, Natasha raises her eyes again and their gazes lock. Her resolve is clear, but it was clear when she was falling, too. He wants to scream. The helmet comes up. 

She’s gone. 

*** 

_Vormir - The dead do not count the days_

_Gamora_

Gamora is having what Peter would call a shitty fucking day. Her chest burns and every one of her joints is aching dully. She is wet and cold. Any joy she might feel at being alive again is tempered by the knowledge that she probably won’t be that way for long. No food, no shelter, and a compromised body… not to mention that she has people around her who have no one else to look to for help. 

Her ears still ring from Xinn’s screams, though the boy has fallen unconscious. His small body is limp and sodden in her lap. The insectoid Breev is already dead again, gaping holes ripped into his carapace from his own claws. Jormi has abandoned them, though perhaps that’s for the best. Ghezit and Natasha both appear to be gravely ill, their breathing compromised. Baldur is clearly very weak. Even the hulking, powerful beast is wheezing as it shudders by her side. 

Gamora is the strongest of them, but that seems more curse than blessing if it merely ensures that she’ll be the last to die. 

“We need to find shelter,” Gamora says into the silence that follows Jormi’s departure. She feels exposed on the bare stone disk, and the baleful shadow of the mountain provides no respite from the wind. Her body aches with exhaustion as she draws her legs under herself and stands, but she refuses to give in to the pain. Xinn is limp in her arms, head fallen back bonelessly and legs dangling. His fibrous, ludicrously oversized clothing hangs heavy and dripping from his skinny body. “Come on, there’s no use staying here.” 

Baldur nods and shifts away from huddling against Natasha. He’s able to move himself with little difficulty, but he has to rest a hand on the girl’s black-clad shoulder for a long moment before he can find his balance on shaky legs. Once stable, the boy immediately offers his hand to the other teenager, softly asking, “Can you stand?” 

“I think so,” Natasha rasps, grasping his hand. Even with his help, the girl barely makes it to her feet. The grace that marked her movements in the garden is simply gone and there is weakness in every shiver. She leans heavily on her friend, and as exhausted as he is, Baldur is clearly the only thing keeping her upright. 

While the children rise together, Ghezit manages without assistance, though the effort leaves him bent over and struggling to breathe. The hound is last to heave itself up, growling and making an aborted attempt to shed the water from his dense, dark fur. 

Looking around, Gamora finds their options limited. A large portion of the land around the circular dais is blocked by the obsidian cliff that looms over them, crowned by the sacrificial altar. Most of the remaining terrain is too rocky and uneven for her companions, but there are a few shallow gullies cut into the landscape, maybe by ancient water flows, that look more easily passable. She doesn’t allow herself to hesitate before choosing the deepest of the channels - the one that leads directly toward the sullen red eclipse. The raised sides are higher, and might provide some additional protection from the cold wind. 

She sets off at a purposeful pace, careful not to move too quickly and risk leaving the others behind. The animal prowls along at her right, warily surveying their surroundings for threats. Ghezit also keeps up, shivering in his worn, brown jumpsuit. His condition is improving; he’s not wasting any breath on complaining, but he seems steadier as they keep walking. Gamora glances back to assess the teenagers. 

Baldur has found his feet, but Natasha is struggling. Gamora recognizes the numb focus of someone who will keep moving until they drop. The sight is eerily, painfully reminiscent of too many moments in her abomination of a childhood, and she suddenly misses Nebula with gut-twisting intensity. Deliberately, she slows her pace. 

As they continue walking, she has to slow again and again, and still the children fall gradually farther behind. Baldur is all but carrying the girl, and Natasha is faltering, barely able to breathe. If she collapses, the boy will not abandon her. Gamora won’t force him to, but neither will she leave the two of them behind. Baldur or the hound might be recovered enough to carry the lighter Xinn. If not, Gamora could carry both. It will be awkward, but- 

There is a cave ahead. 

It’s not much - the hollow is both shallow and low, darkly shadowed because of the dim light outside. She approaches carefully, shielding Xinn’s head as she peers into the darkness in search of unseen danger. Baldur and Natasha arrive just as she’s beginning to enter, and the boy immediately uses his Asgardian magic to generate light in his palm which quickly engulfs his hand. It’s not exactly bright, but it’s enough to expose the dimensions of the hole. Gamora nods her thanks as she steps fully past the entrance and moves aside to let the others in. 

It’s a relief to be out of the wind. 

The children stagger together to the flat back wall. With the prospect of rest in front of him, the boy’s strength starts to go. He puts his back to the stone and slides down, glowing hand extended. The hound is quick to hunch up on his left, facing the entrance. Natasha falls against Baldur’s other side, pressing close in order to share whatever body heat they still have. Her eyes are on his glowing hand as she asks in a fragile, breathless voice, “Does it hurt?” 

“It’s… difficult,” Baldur says, leaning into his friend. “It's been so long… and I’ve no strength.” 

Gamora studies his pale face as she lays Xinn’s limp form in the young Asgardian’s lap. “Don’t harm yourself,” she orders gently, “but if you can lend us some light for a while, it will be helpful.” Baldur nods shallowly as he adjusts the smaller boy for comfort. With a last glance at the huddled children, she turns away and asks Ghezit, “On your belt - a Kree holomatrix?” 

As Ghezit nods, looking suspicious, she crouches and begins to pull every possibly useful device from her pockets. Small bombs, a blaster, a scanner, her communicator - anything with a battery. 

The skinny, chalky-skinned male grunts in realization. Kneeling beside her, he follows her example. Besides the oversized, antique holomatrix, he has a handful of other devices secreted away, all of them centuries out of date. The tech is clunky and old, but in good shape. As the small pile grows, he asks, “What can you make?” 

“Hopefully a short-range beacon,” Gamora replies, glowering down at the meager heap of parts. If Rocket were here, she has no doubt that he could make this work, but she is not Rocket. She doesn’t even have proper tools. Despair threatens, but she steels herself. She will live, and she will save as many of the others as she can. Without looking back toward the children, she asks, “Baldur, do you have anything?” 

“No,” the boy replies tiredly. His magical light is already too dim to be of any help. 

“Natasha?” 

Unsurely, the girl answers, “I don’t think so.” Her voice is broken and weak, and Gamora grimaces. Her instincts tell her that Natasha will be the first of their small group to pass back into death, and that it will be soon. Even if they are able to flag a ship immediately, rescue will likely come too late for her. Burial would require tools they don’t have and more energy than they can spare, and there is nothing to burn for a pyre. There might be loose stones enough for a cairn. 

Ghezit distracts her from her dark thoughts by suggesting, “Should check the corpse. We go back-” 

“You can if you want,” Gamora interrupts brusquely. “I’m not leaving the children alone. We’ll see what we can do with what we have and check Breev's body if we run out of options.” 

Scowling, he grumbles, “Hopeless, pointless.” He pokes at the heap of devices and complains, “Not even half what’s needed. Unlikely to be ships near Vormir. A nasty trick, offered life just to die in a cave.” 

“We’re not dead yet.” She begins to carefully break the less useful items down for parts - batteries, circuitry, anything that might help to augment her communication device and extend the range. Ghezit leans in when she cracks an EMP grenade to extract the faintly glowing power cell. It’s meant to release all of its energy in a quick burst, but if she routes it to the emergency beacon… 

“Clever, clever,” Ghezit murmurs. “Here - the adaptor from this-” 

“Good call,” she replies. “Can you break down the holomatrix? The crystal-” 

He nods rapidly. “Yes, tighten the beam!” 

Gamora has never liked Ghezit - he’s an ass, and not the amusing kind - but he makes good suggestions and seems to approve of her decisions, reassuring her that they’re doing the best they can. The signal should reach outside the system, maybe even to a nearby relay. This could actually work. 

Baldur’s glow is fading quickly, so they won’t be able to use the battery in Ghezit’s palm light. That’s fine - it’s the least powerful device they have and provides enough illumination to work by. Gamora tries to work quickly but carefully - she can’t risk damaging anything, but the faster this is done, the better their chances. 

There’s scuffling noise and a strange sound behind her - small, almost imperceptible, but unfamiliar - and the susurration of soft, young voices stops. Wary of anything unusual, Gamora glances back to check on the children and stares. Baldur and Xinn haven’t moved. The animal is sleeping. Natasha is gone, as if she’d never been there at all. Heart in her throat, she demands, “Where is she?” 

“Home,” Baldur replies tiredly. There’s something like an apology in his eyes, but also faith that he’s doing the right thing. “Her suit was still functional. She used the quantum device and went back to her world.” 

Gamora stares, disbelieving. “You let her go?” 

“Huh,” Ghezit scoffs bitterly, immediately following it with a harsh cough. “Didn’t expect that one to leave us for dead.” 

Scowling, Baldur shakes his head and staunchly insists, “Natasha would _never_ abandon us. She went to get help.” 

“Of course she did,” Gamora agrees uneasily, tamping down her frustration and worry. If Natasha was healthy, it would actually be a relief to hear that she’d gone for aid. In her condition, though, Gamora is all too aware that the girl could easily die before she’s able to convince anyone to mount a rescue. Even if she can convey the message, will her people listen to a child who they already sacrificed once? No, they won’t be able to rely on her return, and Baldur will now refuse any attempt to leave this place until his best friend comes back. A rescue might be coming, but it’s impossible to be optimistic. 

Maybe, somewhere out there - some _when_ \- Natasha is safe. If not, at least she’ll die on the soil of her homeworld. 

*** 

_Rhodey_

Vormir. The gravity is only fractionally higher than Earth’s - supposedly too little of a difference to feel, but he thinks he does. There’s a wrongness to the place, an undeniable unearthliness that feels sinister even before he sees the broken, red ring of the eclipsed sun. Everywhere Jim looks, he sees raw, black stone. No signs of life, just wind and rock under an angry-looking sky. 

Checking to make sure that he still has the metal suitcase, he retracts his helmet and deactivates the quantum suit as he turns, finding Nat just off to his right with her back to him. She’s still for a moment, probably getting her bearings, and then her helmet folds away and she spins around to face him. Her bright ponytail whips in the irregular gusts of cold wind, and her eyes are wide. 

Still taking in their surroundings, Jim drawls, “Well, this is interesting. Very impressive ‘evil planet of darkness’ vibes.” They’re on a flattened disk, too regular to be naturally formed. About a third of the circumference is hemmed in by a sheer rock wall, but he doesn’t see any caves. The rest of the circle opens onto craggy terrain broken up by a few dry riverbeds that lead away into the distance. The only thing with any color is a reddish-brown pile of twisted limbs dripping with yellow goo at his two o-clock; at first glance, he takes it for rotting vegetation. It’s only when he looks more closely that he realizes it’s actually the extremely inhuman remains of some kind of alien creature. “And _that_ is a nasty, giant bug,” he says, skin crawling at the thought of running into that thing when it was still alive. And, oh sweet Jesus, it has some kind of harness on - _clothes_ \- and a gun strapped to one spiny leg. He glances at Nat, uneasy. “I hope that’s not a friend of yours.” 

“Not really,” Natasha replies, not even looking at the corpse. “He was a jerk.” Despite her words, she looks upset and nervous. 

Jim really hopes that they’re not about to get attacked by a bunch of eight-foot-long cockroaches. “What?” he asks. “What’s wrong?” 

“We shouldn’t be here,” Nat says anxiously. “Bruce said we’d appear where I left from. This isn’t right.” 

It may not be where she expected to land, but she seems to recognize the place. Warily, he prompts, “So where are we?” 

“The place where I died,” she replies. Her thin voice doesn’t tremble, but she’s strung tight, jittery. “-and where I came back.” 

The high wall of rock to his right suddenly takes on a new significance. He studies the girl apprehensively for a beat before raising his eyes to follow the cliff face up and up and up. “Damn,” he breathes. The peak is a long, long way up. A body falling that far, unarmored except for the catsuit she was wearing, and landing on the unforgiving stone under their boots... Now he gets why she keeps telling them that it didn’t hurt to die; moving at that speed, there wouldn’t have been time for pain to register before she was gone. The thing is, Jim knows better than anyone that the sudden stop at the end isn’t the only part that hurts. His own nightmares aren’t of the impact, they’re of endless blue skies and terror. He looks at the girl and even though he already knows the answer, he asks, “Nat… You remember falling from up there?” 

The kid shivers, eyes wide and blank as she stares at his shoulder. It seems to take an effort for her to raise her gaze to meet his, and she looks and sounds like a scared little girl as she replies, “Yeah.” 

Jim wants nothing more than to hug her and tell her it’s going to be okay, but he can’t do that. They’re on a mission, with people to save and a ticking clock. He needs her to keep it together, and that means treating her like his adult teammate, not a helpless kid. Natasha wouldn’t thank him for coddling her when there are lives on the line. Sympathetic, he says, “I know a real good therapist if you need one.” Then he changes the subject, glancing around the rough, dark stone of the disk and asking, “What’s with the water? These puddles? I heard you nearly drowned. Did you drown _here_?” He doesn’t see how - the area they’re in wouldn’t hold any depth of water - but he doesn’t see any trails leading to or from the puddles, either. 

Nat shrugs stiffly. “I think the water came out of the stone with us,” she says. Before he can ask, she’s straightening her spine, looking more like her old self as she announces, “We should get moving. I told Baldur that I'd only take a moment.” With a last glance around, she picks a direction with apparent confidence and heads off down a gully. 

He catches up and matches her pace, sighing, “You have got to stop telling people that you'll be back in a minute. You’re jinxing yourself.” 

Confused, Nat starts to ask, “When-?” Then she stops, maybe remembering that last moment before she first travelled to the past. She’s quiet for a few steps, her brow furrowed thoughtfully, before she glances at him out of the corner of her eye. Subdued, she points out, “I do come back, though. That's got to count for something.” 

That gets a chuckle out of him. “Yeah, you’re the original bad penny. You and Steve.” Wistfully, he muses, “Wish you'd taught that trick to Tony.” 

“He's been pretty good about coming back from the dead, too,” she offers uncertainly. 

He’s not mad - she didn’t see or smell Tony’s scorched body. Hell, after coming back from that fall, he gets why the kid might not see death as permanent. If Natasha and her friends can get resurrected, why not Tony? Unfortunately, life doesn’t work that way. As much as Jim wishes that hope was in the cards, he has to live in the real world. Gently, he replies, “Not this time.” 

She nods sadly and falls silent, saving her breath in order to set a swift, walking pace. It’s no effort at all to keep up in the suit. They head down a shallow gully, surrounded by walls of rough, black stone. The path is pretty easy to follow, actually, but given that some of the survivors were reportedly in bad shape, it’s understandable that they didn’t make an attempt to climb out. Finally, after fifteen minutes or so, Nat starts moving double time, eagerly saying, “There! That’s the cave.” 

That’s when Jim sees it - a gash of deeper darkness in the wall. As he speeds up to stay on the kid’s heels, a woman emerges from the cave. He never got a good look at the alternate-time version of Nebula’s sister during the battle in 2023, but this lady fits the description of Gamora. She’s dressed in black, with red-tinted hair and green skin, and she does _not_ look happy. 

*** 

_Gamora_

Time crawls. The longer Natasha is absent, the more certain Gamora is that the child has perished without finding help. Baldur is silent, but she can almost hear his heart breaking as his faith erodes and he comes to the same conclusion. Even Ghezit is subdued, saying no more than necessary. Eight of them came out of the stone alive, and now only five remain on Vormir. She tries not to think about it, tries to focus on the delicate work of building the beacon; it may still be their only chance to escape. 

It seems like an eternity passes before the sound of metal on stone comes from outside, accompanied by a familiar voice. Gamora freezes for a moment, listening, and then quickly, carefully, places the nearly complete communicator on the stone floor and rises, darting for the entrance of the cave. 

It’s Natasha, thank the stars. The girl is coming from the direction of the altar, almost running. Gamora tenses as she sees the larger form of someone in heavy power armor just behind her. For a moment, Gamora thinks the stranger might be giving chase, but Natasha is smiling - excited, not afraid. More, she seems _healthy_. 

Relief almost overcomes Gamora’s worry and exasperation. Almost. She cautiously moves to meet the pair, studying her wayward charge as the child comes closer. 

Natasha seems to have fully recovered from her affliction. There are no signs of pain on the girl’s face or in her body language, and she’s breathing easily as she jogs down the gully. Obviously she’s received medical care, presumably from the stranger. He seems to have provided new and more form-fitting clothing, as well - Natasha is wearing some sort of white uniform. The ability to travel through time means that she could have been gone for any length of time, but the girl looks no older than she did an hour ago. Did she even move through time at all? Did she instead find a nearby ship and lead them to her friends? 

As Gamora strides toward her young friend and the armored man, she scolds, “Natasha, you can’t wander off. This place isn’t like the garden. You could have gotten lost or hurt.” Grabbing the girl carefully by the wrist as soon as she’s in range, Gamora inserts herself between Natasha and the brown-skinned stranger, regarding him with narrowed eyes. He has no particularly distinct features that might identify his species or affiliation. He could be of Kree or Xandar or even Asgard. His expression is friendly enough, but he’s more than well-armed; he looks ready for war. “Who’s this?” 

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to take so long,” Natasha says apologetically. The man shoots a skeptical look at the teenager and her slim wrist moves in Gamora’s grip, but she isn’t trying to pull away. The girl quickly explains, “My suit looked intact, so I went back home to get help. Rhodey’s one of my friends, the ones who were collecting the stones - he came to help me bring you all to the future. Rhodey, this is Gamora.” 

This is one of the Terrans who worked to undo her father’s genocidal work? Part of her wants to trust this man - he has a steady presence, though she detects a military bearing. The less naive part of her, which has kept her alive all these years, isn’t so ready to relax. He might put on a nice face, but his people sent a child to her death on Vormir. Even monsters can pretend to be kind. 

Rhodey smiles warmly. "Nebula is gonna be thrilled to see you," he says, reaching out to shake Gamora's hand. His expression never wavers as she reluctantly allows the gesture. As an afterthought, he adds, "Rocket and the others, too, of course." 

Bemused, Gamora asks, "You know my sister?" Natasha had told her of Nebula’s survival, and of knowing her, but the man speaks of her almost fondly. The idea that her prickly sister might have found a real friend is both elating and bizarre. 

“Not as well as Nat did,” he hedges, still smiling, “but we worked together once or twice in the last five years. That would be the _next_ five years from when we are now, I guess.” Ruefully, he quips, “Time travel, right?” 

She nods stiffly. For now, she has no choice but to accept his help. Natasha seems to have come to no new harm, and Gamora’s other charges need medical care as soon as possible. “Well, if you’re here to help, then I’m grateful.” Turning back to the wide-eyed girl, she releases her arm and gestures for Natasha to precede them into the cave. 

*** 

_Rhodey_

Seeing the Black Widow getting mothered by a hot, green alien is easily in Jim’s top ten of weird, awkward moments. Having Nat act like a repentant kid and _apologize for running off_ bumps it up to the top five. Honestly, if they weren’t in the middle of a rescue mission, he’d be asking some very pointed questions. 

Nat enters the cave and wastes no time in hurrying to the back wall, where a couple of other kids are huddled in the shadows with some kind of big animal. Presumably, that’s the ‘dog’; it raises its large head and makes a noise, but stays when the older boy touches it. Gamora obscures his vision for a moment, before stepping quickly to the side. Jim follows more slowly, taking in the scattered electronics and the skinny, white alien in the middle of the room who stares at him warily. Everyone looks wet and cold and exhausted. Gamora gives him a challenging look, positioning herself to defend the others if need be. 

Jim nods to himself, his misgivings about the mission draining away. Everything he’s seeing matches the intel Nat provided, and these people have clearly been through hell. They’ve got ‘refugee’ written all over them, even Gamora, who would probably give kicking his ass a good try if he makes a wrong move. Whatever they’ve been trying to build - educated guess says communication device - it doesn’t look like a weapon. They’re not a threat. These people need help, and that’s enough for him. 

Well, he does have one concern. Nat is crouched low, whispering with the blond kid as they hold hands. Cute. Her other hand is occupied with petting the bear-sized beast as if it were a cocker spaniel. He’s a little leary of taking that thing back to Earth, but it seems pretty tame, and Jim really doubts that this group is going to leave their pet on this lifeless rock. Worst case scenario, he supposes that Wanda and the Hulk can subdue it. 

Raising his voice just enough to be sure that all of the survivors can hear, Jim says, “Alright, listen up. I’m going to take some scans of everyone for the medical team.” He lifts the scanner to show it off before aiming it at himself to show that it’s harmless. When Gamora nods, he quickly scans the kneeling male alien, who scowls, and then the stoic green woman, before moving toward the kids. “We've got Asgardian healers, so we should be able to sort out your individual needs. We’re all going to leave together, but the landing platform’s only made for one at a time.” Up close, the human-looking blond kid doesn’t seem to be in bad shape, but the little boy with stripes in his lap is completely unconscious. The dog - and yeah, he can see why Nat called it that, given the shape of the head, but _seriously_ \- watches him alertly, pointed ears twitching every time he moves. “Nat and I will get there first to give the medical staff the data and there’ll be short intervals between arrivals to clear the platform. Does that make sense to everyone?” 

Gamora curtly replies, “We understand. You have enough equipment for all of us?” 

“We pack efficiently where I come from,” Jim says, raising the case and popping the latches. He holds it open to show everyone the five white time-space GPS devices created for them. Four are bracelets and one is a long strap. “These are pre-set and locked, so this is going to be real simple. Just put on the bracelet and push the button.” 

Gamora considers the contents of the case, then glances to Natasha for confirmation. The girl nods encouragingly. “Alright,” the woman says quietly. Reaching in, she takes two bracelets, handing one to the white-skinned alien. The other she slips onto her own wrist, narrowing her eyes when it adjusts to conform to her arm. She waits a moment, but when nothing else happens, she takes the remaining devices and moves to the children while Jim relatches the case. 

As she gets them outfitted, the skinny guy puts on his own bracelet and quickly gathers up all of the scattered tech. He handles a couple of pieces with exaggerated care as he places them into housings or tucks them into his clothes, but the majority gets swept up in handfuls and shoved carelessly in his pockets. 

“We don’t want to be touching,” Natasha says as she stands. “That’s what Bruce said.” 

Gamora frowns, but she doesn’t object as she lifts the younger boy out of the blond kid’s lap and lays the unconscious child gently on the floor of the cave. Nat reaches down to activate the little guy’s quantum suit before turning to help the older boy up, steadying him when he wobbles on his feet. They share a look and the blond kid nods, letting Nat press the button at his wrist. The adults trigger their own suits, not seeming too bothered by suddenly being covered in white material. The dog is the only exception - Nat’s finger hovers over the button on his collar, but she glances back at Jim to wait for his cue. 

“Alright,” he says, “just take a deep breath. You’ll all go together, and I’ll be right behind you. In a moment you’ll be on Earth, under a big, bright sun.” He nods to Nat, who taps the button and steps back as the startled animal is engulfed in protective material. The moment the helmet fully forms over that heavy muzzle, Jim activates the recall command and sends the little group of survivors on their way to 2023. 

It works - all of them are gone. With a sigh of relief, Jim takes one last look around before following them home. 

*** 

_Clint_

_Please please please please please please please_

*** 

_Sam_

The endless minute between Natasha’s disappearance and her return is hell. Sam can’t stop questioning the decision to send her back to that place. Were they too hasty? Should they have taken their time to plan more? Maybe he could have convinced her to stay behind if he just tried harder. 

The last time he watched a friend climb that platform, they lost Captain America. 

“Now,” he hears Bruce say, and a slim figure appears, pristine in white and red. 

Sam exhales, the tightness in his chest easing. He won’t be able to relax completely until Rhodes and the survivors arrive and they can wrap the mission and pack up all of the time travel stuff, but at least he hasn’t gotten Nat killed for a second time. 

Her eyes are closed when the helmet retracts, squeezed tight against the sunlight. She takes a deep breath before she opens them, a small smile playing on her lips that widens when she looks toward Barton. Nat looks a little wind-swept, her ponytail dishevelled and a lot more loose hair framing her pink-cheeked face, but there’s no sign of injuries and she doesn’t seem upset. She’s okay. As she descends the steps from the platform, the suit peels away, the uniform giving way to casual clothes. 

When she pulls off the bracelet and offers it to Sam, he steps forward, giving her a quick scan to confirm his first impression. As he accepts the band, he asks, "No problems? Everything go as planned?" 

"We landed a little farther away from the cave than expected," Natasha reports, "but we found the others and we're all set. Rhodey was going to make sure everyone else was on the way before he jumped." 

Sam nods. It’s good to hear that they haven’t run into any major complications so far. "Alright.” Pretty sure that he already knows her response, he asks, “You're sticking around until everyone's accounted for?" 

"Of course," she says promptly, like there’s no other answer. 

"Good. Just-" 

"Stay back and use Clint as a human shield if anything explodes," Nat recites, rolling her eyes. "I remember the plan, Sam." She smiles impishly at him to let him know she’s teasing and casts a meaningful look over his shoulder, probably at Wanda. It’s a look that says, ‘can you believe this guy?’ 

Sam can hear Hope snickering behind him, and he has to fight his own face to hold off a grin. It’s good to have Nat giving him grief again - like old times. "Kids these days," he grouses in response, shaking his head in mock disappointment. "You know I'm the new Captain America, right? Respect the shield at least." 

Nat looks delighted, but Rhodey appears before she can sass Sam more. 

The colonel nods, his serious but serene manner saying that they’re good. They’re doing the right thing. He steps down heavily from the platform in his armor, heading straight for the Asgardian healers. 

Nat pulls her phone out of the pocket of her hoodie, asking, "It’s half an hour until the others start arriving?" 

"Yeah," Sam says. And as much as it looks like things are going well, it’s probably best to make sure she’s not right in the middle of the action. "Go on and keep Hawkeye company. He's starting to look like he'll head over here, and I don't need him infecting anyone else with retirement." 

It’s hard to tell whether she understands what he’s doing - she walks toward Barton with a smile, tossing back a joke: "I wouldn't worry, he's really bad at retiring.” 

He watches her go for a moment, then turns back to the rest of his team. Wanda looks wistful, Valkyrie bored, and Bruce surprisingly distant. 

Wearing an unreadable expression, Hope asks, “Was she like that before?” 

“Yes,” Wanda says, “and no.” 

They’ve given themselves half an hour before the survivors start arriving. It seemed like a reasonable amount of time to allow the healers to prepare, but it starts feeling like too long after about five minutes. 

Rhodey comes over and quietly reports on what he saw on Vormir, but mostly he repeats what Nat already told them with a few extra details. “When she said ‘big dog’, she wasn’t kidding. The cave was dark, but it looked like a wolf on steroids. Just the head...” He illustrates by holding his hands a foot and a half apart. 

Hope raises a brow skeptically and gives the platform an uncertain look. “Seriously?” 

“Yeah,” Rhodey insists. Dropping his hands, he advises, “Seemed tame enough, but might not be a bad idea to make friends with a butcher. Pretty sure that thing doesn’t eat plants.” 

“Great,” Sam sighs. Well, they’ll figure it out. Hopefully they can ship the dog back to its home planet or something. In the meantime, he knows there are deer in the woods. He might have to ask Hawkeye to do some hunting. Moving on to a more important topic, he asks, “How was Nat out there?” 

Rhodey hesitates. There’s something he wants to say, or thinks he should say, but for some reason he’s reluctant. Abruptly, his expression closes off and he replies, “She was good. She kept it together.” He doesn’t seem to be lying, but he’s definitely holding back. He’s not even trying to hide it, just giving Sam a resolute look. 

Frowning, Sam ventures, “If something happened…?” 

“No,” Rhodey says, shaking his head. “Nothing happened.” 

“Natasha will be okay, Sam,” Wanda declares before he can push. “Don’t worry so much.” 

She might as well tell him to fly without his wings. Sam sighs and lets it go, but the shield feels heavier. He’d rather know things before they come out of nowhere and surprise him. He can’t protect his team from threats they don’t warn him about. 

Small conversations begin and quickly trail off. Across the clearing, Nat plays on her phone while Barton stands sentinel at her side. 

Then there’s a kid on the platform, laid on his back with his eyes closed and arms on his chest, his small body swamped by baggy clothes. He’s clearly alien, his skin a dusty, muted green marked with dull gold tiger stripes, but his features aren’t that different from a human kid’s. His hair is a slightly darker gold than his stripes, so short that it looks like velvet. Sam takes half a step forward on instinct before the healers sweep in, one of the ladies quickly bundling the boy up as if he weighs less than a toddler. The boy disappears into the tent within half a minute of his arrival. 

Five minutes later, a skinny guy arrives, whiter than white and totally bald, with odd ears. He’s wearing an ugly, baggy, brown jumpsuit with a bunch of pockets and looks like he’s seen better days. He’s strong enough to walk to the tent for medical care, but he watches everyone and everything like he expects to get robbed. 

“Based on the data relayed by the wristbands, the next one should be Gamora,” Bruce says. “Nebula’s sister.” 

*** 

_Gamora_

Gamora’s first moment on Earth is bright. She knows immediately that she is outdoors. She can smell the unfamiliar scents of a new planet, of nearby water and healthy vegetation. The first thing she sees are the trees, rising all around. Next is the lake, blue under a blue sky. 

She stands on a small, round platform made of some transparent material. Machinery surrounds it, three towers rising like blades around her. An assortment of vehicles and containers are scattered between the trees, overflowing the bounds of a modest clearing. This is not a permanent site, a lab or a dedicated facility - this is a temporary encampment. She turns as her sight returns, to get a sense of her surroundings. There is a metal console manned by a large green male a few yards away, and in the space between, a number of individuals who seem prepared for battle, but not aggressive. The armored man from before is there, alongside a similarly-complected man carrying a round, red, blue, and silver shield, two women in close-fitting, lightweight combat suits, and a younger woman with bright hair who is dressed like a civilian. 

Rhodey greets her, but Gamora is already looking away as she acknowledges him with an absent nod. She’s careful to keep the strangers in her peripheral vision, but they’re not her primary interest. Rhodey had said- 

There - a distance away, nearer the lake - Natasha is easy to spot, her bright red hair glowing under the light of the yellow sun. She’s changed her clothing again; the white uniform has been replaced with softer, more casual clothing in blue and black. She’s standing with a man in similar blue trousers and a patterned shirt who hovers at her side like a guard. 

The green-skinned man at the console signals for Gamora to step down from the platform. She does, immediately moving toward Natasha. 

Smiling, Natasha greets her, "Welcome to Midgard!” 

"Earth," the man drawls, faintly amused. He looks worn and tired, but he holds himself like a fighter. His coloring is similar to Peter’s, though his eyes are blue. "We earthlings call it 'Earth'." 

Unbothered by the correction, the girl says, "Welcome to Earth. I'm still acclimating.” She gestures toward the man and introduces him. “Gamora, this is Clint. Clint, Gamora.” 

So this is the man who allowed a child to sacrifice herself for the Soul Stone in his place. Gamora expected him to be closer in age to Natasha, but he’s easily old enough to be her father. It’s hard to imagine such an experienced warrior losing to even a talented child; it’s possible, but she looks at him and doubts. If she didn’t know that Natasha loves this ‘Clint’ dearly, she would waste no time in calling him out. Attempting to temper her hostility, she forces herself to say a clipped, polite, “Hello.” 

“Hi,” the human replies neutrally, raising a brow. 

Natasha has always been an insightful child; she notices the tension, her brow furrowing with uncertainty, but she is ever the peace-maker. Instead of asking questions, the girl makes a blatant attempt to avert conflict. She points toward the golden brown tent back toward the platform and says, "Xinn and Ghezit are in there with the doctors. We're still waiting for the others." 

Nodding, Gamora turns away from the man to focus on the teenager. Natasha looks different in life, and not just because of the clothes. The hope in her eyes is far more fitting for a child of her age than the quiet acceptance she showed in the garden. Gamora would prefer that she holds onto that for as long as possible. "I should check on them,” she states. “You'll wait here for Baldur and the animal?" 

"Yes," Natasha replies dutifully. 

"Alright. Come find me when they arrive," she instructs, gentle but firm. With a last, critical glance at Clint, she leaves the pair to make her way to the tent. Again, no one stops her - the humans seem content to let her wander as she will. Either they regard her as friendly or they simply don’t see her as a threat. 

The dim interior of the tent smells of spice and steam. Oddly crude lamps provide steady, golden light. Gamora had expected something more ostentatious from Asgardians, though perhaps this group is connected to the refugees Thor was escorting when she met him. Though it feels like months, she supposes that was five years ago. 

There are three cots in the room, only one unoccupied. Xinn lies in the one to the far right. The boy is still unconscious, but his color is better and he’s breathing well. They’ve removed his oversized clothes and covered him with a blanket. One of the younger healers is kneeling by his side, hands extended over his chest to frame a ring of energy which spins slowly. The woman’s eyes are closed in concentration. 

Ghezit is in the middle cot, also asleep, but still wearing his now-dry jumpsuit. The healers have removed the contents of his pockets; Gamora’s altered communicator sits on a low table in the far corner, alongside the debris of their desperate construction and a handful of other objects. 

The two remaining healers are conferring with each other, but look up at her entrance. The younger steps back with a glance at the elder. The old woman, in turn, merely looks at Gamora with a question in her sharp eyes. Crisply, she asks, “I am Healer Thiodvarta. You are Gamora?” 

“I am,” she replies, stepping forward. “How are they?” 

“They will recover in short order,” the woman says. She raises a hand, fingers raised but relaxed, and asks, “May I?” 

Gamora nods and blinks in startlement when the old woman flicks her fingers and causes the moisture to evaporate from her clothes in a puff of steam, a singularly odd sensation. She’s immediately more comfortable, and not inclined to complain when a golden ring like the one over Xinn appears in the air between them. 

“Hmm,” the elder muses after a moment of focus. “You do not need aid, though I would recommend food and rest soon.” 

That was rather obvious, but Gamora says, “Thank you.” 

The healer nods and dispels the ring. Turning away, she beckons the younger healer back to her side. 

Since she has clearly been dismissed, Gamora moves past the healers to the low table in the corner. They don’t object as they return to their low conversation. She begins to pick out the things that are hers and try to reassemble what she was taking apart only a short time ago. Some things are broken beyond her skill to repair, but she’ll salvage what she can. 

It’s at that moment, picking through the debris of her desperation, that the reality of the situation hits her. Her little band of survivors will live. Once Baldur and the beast arrive, they’ll all be together again, and miraculously free of Vormir. Gamora mourns for the other children of the garden, the innocents who did not return from death - the storytellers, the chasers, and the little ones. Though she knows they are at peace, she would have liked to bring them all to safety. At least Baldur and Natasha and Xinn will have the chance to grow up, to take back the lives stolen from them. She tries to find some comfort in that. 

Now she just has to contact the Guardians and reunite with her family. She’s missed them all so much, Peter especially. Soon. Soon, she’ll see them. 

Soon. 

*** 

_Clint_

Nothing is going to ruin the high from having Nat come back safe, but it’s been a while since Clint had anyone dislike him that much at first sight. As the green woman walks away, he eyes Nat and observes, "Not the friendly sort. Though you seem to have gotten past her defenses." 

"She's slow to warm up to new people,” Natasha says uncertainly. Though he gets the impression that she’s making excuses, she seems honestly puzzled by the green lady’s acrimony. “We’ve known each other for years. Also, she thinks I'm actually a kid." 

"Yeah, I noticed that." To be fair, it’s not as if Nat could have told the woman any different, considering that she didn’t know she’d been turned into a teenager until she got home. Oddly, the stone doesn’t seem to have made Gamora any younger. Clint supposes that she was in the stone for a lot less time - about a month, if he recalls correctly, instead of four years. 

Looking troubled, Nat checks the timer on her phone. 

Amused by her impatience, he counsels, "Patience, young grasshopper.” 

Grumpily, she reminds him, "I told you no pet names.” 

"Pop culture references are allowed!" How else is she going to learn them again? 

"No." 

A minute later, he hears Rhodey loudly say, "Hey, we may want to back up. The next one is kind of-" 

A bulky, dark-furred animal the size of a polar bear appears on the platform, claws scrabbling to find purchase on the glassy surface. Sam and the others jump back as the monster flashes a mouthful of huge, sharp teeth and emits a startled, high-pitched yelp. The massive head swings back and forth as it searches for a target, eyes narrowed to slits and fangs bared in warning. Clint is ready to grab Nat and drag her away, but it doesn’t look like it’ll be necessary - Sam and Hope are already out of biting range, backed up to stand by Bruce, and Valkyrie and Wanda are ready to stop the thing as soon as it moves. 

Nat isn’t the slightest bit surprised or worried. Casually putting her phone in her pocket, she calls, "Hey! Come here, dog!" 

“Oh shit,” Clint mutters. 

The monster goes still, quivering in place as it orients on Nat’s position. The snarl fades and the long tail - more like a big cat’s than a dog’s - wags slowly, cautiously. When it moves, it’s an explosion of speed and power that crosses twenty feet in one absurd, horizontal leap. It takes the whole remainder of the distance between the platform and Nat just to bleed off the momentum from that jump. Unbelievably, the thing doesn’t bowl her over; it somehow manages to stop on a dime and immediately turns heartbreakingly docile as it snuffles at her clothes and lowers its massive head to butt gently against her chest like a happy cat. There are, Clint can’t help but notice, deep furrows carved into the turf from the thick, black claws on its dinner plate sized feet. It’s fast, and strong, and not one of the superbeings across the field managed more than a twitch in its direction when it pounced. If the animal had turned out to be aggressive... 

"Good dog," Natasha says fondly as she buries both hands in the dense, shaggy fur of the monster’s ruff and gives it a scritching. 

Heart vibrating in his chest, Clint stands very, very still and tries not to draw attention to himself. The thing may like Nat, but that doesn’t mean it’ll be friendly to anyone else. "Okay,” he breathes, careful not to raise his voice, “another thing you need to relearn is the word 'wolf'. Or maybe 'bear'.” 

Nat gives him a look of purely teenage scorn, rolling her eyes and telling him, "He's not a _bear_ , he's a _dog_. Dog, this is Clint. He's a friend." 

The animal aims its heavy, pointed snout at him and sniffs just like a big, curious dog, then quickly loses interest. Pulling away from Nat with a last nuzzle against her unguarded belly, it - he? - starts exploring its new surroundings. Like a dog, this means sniffing everything while staying close enough to keep Nat in sight and occasionally making a low coughing noise. Unlike any dog Clint’s ever seen, the thing is enormous. It’s like the wooly mammoth of wolves, long in the body and almost as tall as Clint at the shoulder, easily 800 pounds of heavily muscled, primordial predator. The eyes are a striking navy blue, and the tufted ears and puma tail are odd, but okay, ‘dog’ by way of Hulk. 

The part that bothers Clint the most is that Nat didn’t warn anyone that this thing was coming, and he’s about eighty-five percent sure that she wasn’t holding back to screw with them. No, he’s betting that it didn’t even occur to her that the animal’s size was worth mentioning. 

‘Just a big, shaggy dog,’ she said. _Jesus_. 

Giving in to temptation, Clint reaches out and lets his fingers drag through the thick, damp coat as the beast passes nearby. It feels stupid, like petting a tiger, but what the hell. The dog doesn’t seem to mind, and his hand isn’t covered in wet, shed fur, so it’s a double win. Curious despite himself, he asks, “So what's his name?" 

Natasha shrugs carelessly. "I don't think he has one." 

Well, that’s not right. "You can't just not name him," he objects, appalled. Trying to think of something appropriate for the hulking monster, he tosses out, "How about Mishka?" 

“Still not a bear,” she counters, returning to staring at the platform. 

“Boris?” 

“No.” 

“Bruiser?” 

“No.” 

“Fluffy?” 

The corner of Nat’s mouth quirks up in amusement - score one for him. She hums thoughtfully, pretending to humor the suggestion, and he grins. 

Then there’s a flash from the platform as the final survivor arrives, and Nat exhales slowly, her shoulders dipping as she sags a little. Her relief is so obvious that Clint kicks himself a little for not realizing before how much tension she’s been carrying. 

The new arrival is a blond boy about Cooper’s age, dressed in a long-sleeved blue tunic and pants. He can only be Baldur - for one thing, he’s the first of the lot who can pass for human, like the other Asgardians do. For another, the kid bears more than a passing resemblance to Thor. Hell, by looks alone, he could easily be the Thunder god’s son. That’s another thing Nat should have mentioned, and a bad feeling curls up ice cold in Clint’s gut. “He sure looks familiar,” he observes wryly, trying to keep his tone light. 

As the boy steps shakily down from the platform and makes a beeline for Nat, she nods absently and moves to meet him. Nonplussed, Clint follows. She seems a lot more affected by this kid’s arrival than the others. What was it that Nat said about Baldur at dinner? That he’d been in the stone longer than anyone. That she learned from him. That he was a friend. 

Before the teenagers can reach each other, the dog rushes over to headbutt the boy in the chest, using a lot more force than he applied to Nat. The kid stumbles a little, laughing at the excited greeting and petting the animal as he receives a round of curious sniffing. “Good dog,” he says affectionately. Then he looks up and sees Natasha approaching, and his smile brightens like the sun coming out from behind clouds. 

*** 

_Valkyrie_

When Val sees the last of the sacrifices appear, she has to take a moment to settle her emotions. She is both pleased and saddened to see that the sacrificed boy is indeed the young prince - pleased because the hope Bruce gave her has not proven false, and saddened because his fate was so much darker than she had known. He looks not a day older than when she last saw him lifetimes ago in Asgard. 

As the boy greets the wolf-dog, she walks toward him and calls, “Prince Baldur!” 

He jolts and turns toward her, wide-eyed with shock. “Valkyrie Brunnhilde! You look the same!” 

Though it’s less than polite to their hosts, she uses the High Tongue when she responds. Some of what they say during their reunion may be better kept private. “A few millennia in a wormhole will do that,” she explains. “Most people just call me Val these days, your highness.” 

"Val, then," the youth says in the Allspeak. He glances at the young Romanoff uncertainly, then switches to the High Tongue to formally reply, "And you must call me Baldur. It's been a long time since I was a prince." Behind him, Hawkeye looks somewhat put out by their use of a language he can’t understand. The girl’s expression is more one of concern. 

“Come over to the tent,” Valkyrie urges. “A healer will need to see you.” 

Apprehensive, the prince reaches out blindly toward the girl, who clasps his hand without hesitation. It’s an unexpected reaction, but perhaps it shouldn’t be; they’ve shared an afterlife for some time, and it’s clear that the survivors of the Soul Stone have a bond of trust. Choosing not to comment, Valkyrie merely turns to lead them toward the healers’ tent. Judging by the sounds that follow in her wake, Hawkeye and the wolf will be joining them as well. 

Golden lamplight and familiar incense fill the tent, the atmosphere echoing the lost Asgard. It’s nostalgic and painful, but if the setting comforts the healers, then so be it. Two of the three cots are occupied by ill survivors, tended by Thiodvarta’s apprentices. The Zehoberei woman stands watch over them, worry smoothing from her expression when she sees the young ones and the wolf enter behind Val. She nods approvingly. 

The party takes a moment to arrange themselves in the close quarters of the tent, the wolf going to check on the healers’ patients. Thiodvarta gestures Baldur toward the empty cot, and the prince quickly complies, releasing Romanoff’s hand as he goes. The old woman quickly dries the boy’s clothes and conjures a ring of Seidr to determine his condition. 

Wishing not to waste time, Valkyrie says, “We have much to discuss, Baldur. Considering where you turned out to be, I can now guess the means by which Odin defeated Hela all those years ago, and why she returned when she did.” Val can’t imagine a more odious use for an Infinity Stone - certainly, murdering half of all life was abhorrent, but what parent could sacrifice their own innocent child for the power to seal their firstborn away for millennia. Why not simply kill Hela and spare everyone the pain? Now here they are, with Val having to clean up yet another of Odin’s messes and give this forsaken child nothing but terrible news. Trying to be gentle for the sake of the boy’s age, she reports, “My Prince, I’m sorry to inform you that your father and mother have both died, and your sister as well. You do have a surviving brother who is offworld now. In his absence, the throne has been left to me.” 

Baldur shows no surprise, meeting her eyes calmly and replying, “My brother Thor is wise. I am gladdened that you lead our people in these difficult times, Lady Valkyrie.” 

That is not at all what she expected from him. Confounded, she asks, “You know about Thor?” 

“I have heard of his recent adventures from Natasha's stories of the Avengers,” the boy explains. The light of Thiodvarta’s magic reflects in his artless blue eyes. Solemnly, he adds, “I also know that Asgard has fallen and the survivors of our people now call Midgard their home. It will take time for me to learn about this world so that I may one day be of use to Asgard.” 

With a sense that her understanding of the situation is turning to quicksand under her feet, Val begins, “The throne-” 

“Cannot be in the hands of an unschooled child,” Baldur concludes regretfully, nodding. “I understand and agree, my Queen. Consider me your loyal subject, though I am only a boy and have little to offer.” 

Thiodvarta chooses that time to end her spell and announce, “Our young prince is in good health, Majesty.” The emphasis on Val’s recently-acquired title and the twinkle in her eye makes it quite clear what the healer thinks of who should rule Asgard. “He merely needs healthful foods and rest to recover from his ordeal.” 

Val regards the boy thoughtfully as she nods at the healer. “I’m happy to hear that, Healer Thiodvarta. I suppose that matters of state can wait until he's had time to recuperate.” They will discuss the topic again, she resolves. It may be true that the boy is too young and too long out of the living world to take the throne now or in the coming days, but she will not be an usurper. 

Pleased with himself, the rascal grins up at her like the little rogue he is. He may look like Thor, but she sees the Loki in him now, Norns help her. 

“Your Majesty,” Romanoff interjects, and Val is stunned to hear the human girl use the High Tongue. Her accent is a little tentative, but she speaks fluently. “We'll be contacting the Guardians of the Galaxy to return to Midgard for Gamora." She gestures toward the Zehoberei woman, who nods. "I’ve been told that Thor is with them." 

"Oh,” Gamora says. “Thor should be warned that he has another brother, shouldn't he?” She uses the Allspeak rather than the High Tongue, but she would also have understood every word spoken since they entered the tent. 

Val raises an eyebrow at the alien women who speak the exclusive language of her people, noting her young prince’s struggle to keep a straight face. She should have known, she realizes - it’s doubtful that man made objects could be carried into a spiritual realm, meaning no communication devices, no translators. The Allspeak is universally understood, an ancient power woven into every word; such a language would have been the only way for the sacrifices to speak to one another. Switching to the Allspeak so that Hawkeye is no longer the only one excluded from the conversation, she dryly says, “Good idea. Let's give them a call.” 

“Not in my ward,” Healer Thiodvarta declares in a voice that brooks no objections. “With all due respect, Your Majesty, I have patients abed.” 

Hawkeye coughs pointedly and suggests, “We could head back to base. Plenty of unused rooms for some privacy and probably some communications equipment. If we ask nicely, Sam will probably let us use the jet to get there faster.” 

*** 

_Clint_

“Yes, alright,” Valkyrie says, regarding Clint thoughtfully. “Lead on.” 

Resisting the urge to give a little bow. Clint nods curtly instead and leads the way out of the tent. He knows he’s always a tiny bit antagonistic with Asgardians, but that accent just raises his hackles. Hearing it come out of Nat’s mouth was… unpleasant. And then Gamora’s comment about Thor having another brother... 

It’s fine. The kid is just that - a _kid_. He’s been through a lot, and whatever a certain other member of his family might have done, it’s not his fault. Clint would have preferred to be warned about whose brother Baldur is, but he can’t be mad at Nat, either. After all, _she’s_ a kid, and _she’s_ been through a lot, too. He doesn’t even know whether she remembers Loki. He’s not sure he _wants_ to know. 

He swallows back bile and calls, “Hey, Sam,” as they get closer to the knot of Avengers hanging out by the platform. They’ve already pulled the cables free of the device, and judging by the gesturing, they’re discussing what comes next. “Is it okay to use the quinjet to take this bunch back to base?” 

Glancing toward the tent they all just emerged from as he turns away from Rhodey, Sam asks, “Just you guys? What about the healers and the other survivors?” 

“The healers and their patients aren’t ready to leave yet,” Valkyrie replies. Eyeing the jet, she adds, “It will be less crowded if we move in separate groups.” 

Sam sizes them up, lingering on the dog, and agrees, “Yeah, okay - I’ll fly you to the complex and bring the jet back to ferry the healers over when they’re ready.” 

“Hope and I will start getting the equipment packed,” Bruce says. Focusing on Gamora, he asks, “Before you go, could I get the GPS devices from you?” He taps the wrist of his bound-up arm to make his meaning clear. 

Gamora and Baldur obligingly remove the white bands from their arms and pass them over the console to Bruce. Natasha takes the collar off the dog, the big animal totally compliant under her small hands. He shakes out his ruff once he’s free of the restriction. 

“I’ll have Mom meet you in the parking lot to catch a ride back, if that’s okay,” Hope says. At Sam’s nod, she turns to ask, “Wanda, would you be willing to stay and lend a hand with breaking everything down?” 

“Of course,” Wanda replies. 

“I’ll help with breakdown, too,” Rhodey offers. “I might not be able to move stuff with my mind, but I can stow a tent. And Clint - don’t start the movies without me, okay?” 

“Will do,” Clint agrees. It’s not like there’s any hurry, now that everyone’s safe and accounted for. 

“Alright,” Sam says. “I’ll be back in a bit.” He nods in the direction of the parked jet and starts walking. Clint follows, faltering slightly when Nat falls in behind him instead of keeping up. A glance over his shoulder finds that she’s speaking quickly and quietly to Baldur and Gamora, describing the new base to them. The dog is at Baldur’s side and Valkyrie takes up the rear, subtly keeping an eye on the boy. _Okay, then_. Clint faces front and picks up his pace, but not so much that the low murmur of voices falls too far behind. 

As they head through the trees, Sam drops back a bit to walk beside him and asks, “Movies?” 

“No spoilers,” Clint warns before explaining, “We’re watching Star Wars.” He jerks his head toward the group behind them. 

Sam gets it immediately. “Ohhhh. I’ll have to catch up when I can.” 

Yeah, Clint was kind of expecting that. It’s fine, though. The first time he and Nat watched Star Wars together, they only had a fragile truce between them. She was basically alone in the world, putting up with him because no one else even pretended to give a damn. She came a long way in her life, made more friends than she probably knows. It’s an odd but comforting thought. “Sure,” he replies, “The more the merrier.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally, I intended for every chapter in this story to cover one day. Unfortunately, this chapter got way too long, so I've decided to break it up about halfway through. Part Two is only a few scenes from complete, so I hope to have it up soon.


End file.
